When Grandma Says Duh

Sunday dinner after church was always a special time for us.  It meant that we got to walk across the street, from the little church and into the most wonderful little house.  The house with the three little stairs that led into a wonderful spacious living room with burnt orange carpet and a little coffee table with items we should not touch.  Oh, and in the other room, smell that delicious food.  That food had been prepared the evening before and had been slow cooking the whole time we had been at church.  The smell of pot roast and new potatoes filled the air.  Oh, look, what’s that in the corner?  See it, over there, with the damp towel draped over it.  Yes, it’s homemade yeast rolls.  Do you have any of your strawberry preserves, a voice called from the back room?  We were all there, my mom, brother, sister and I.  It was Sunday dinner and granny had prepared the meal.  We would set the table and argue over who would say the prayer.  Then, granddad after we had all stuffed ourselves silly, granddad would get out his apron and drape it over his 5’5” inch tall frame and fat little belly and stand at the sink washing dishes while one of us dried.  We dried those dishes at the sink; overlooking the backyard and the birdfeeder that granny hung over the carport.  Dinner dishes dried, we imagined what could be waiting for dessert.  Would it be the peach cobbler, the lemon squares, the Texas brownies, or the dreaded persimmon pudding.  No, not persimmon pudding.  No kids want persimmon pudding!  That brown kind of oatmeal looking, maybe it’s a fruit, but you warm it up and eat it in the Fall, oh, please not that stuff.  But just maybe, she would make her famous sugar cookies, so thick and fat and rolled in sugar.  I know, how about the peanut butter fudge?  Yes, Yes, she’s got the pan out.  It’s the old metal pan, with the bent handle and her wooden spoon.  Granny would stir and stir, that arm flapping and flapping in the air and one foot pumping, like she was going to run.  And in the end, she’d take a spoon and put a drop of that liquid perfection in a bowl of cold water and if that liquid turned into a ball, it was time to pour the fudge.  We waited, holding our breath, our eyes fixated on that little ball of liquid, like a science experiment for N.A.S.A.  When we saw that ball, we knew fudge was about to land on the plate and we could lick the pan!  Yes, Perfection.  And to end a perfect Sunday, we’d all gather in the living room and listen to the various stories my grandparents had to tell about the “old” days.  My grandmother taught me so much about life.  My first trip to the library was with my grandmother.  I walked hand in hand to church with my grandmother.  I learned how to set a table and so many other life lessons.  At the end of so many of our own little stories, my grandmother would simply say, “have mercy”.

Have Mercy, that’s what my grandmother would say.  But what happens, when Grandma says “Duh”?  Some of the grandmothers that I see today are very different than the grandmothers that I saw when I was growing up.  This has caused me to wonder, who are the teachers of the lessons of the past?  When I used to teach diversity classes, we would ask our students, who or what do you identify yourself as?  Today, I venture to guess that many grandmothers do not self identify as a grandmother.  When grandma is still in the club or living with her boyfriend, what is a child to think?  When Grandma and Mom are only separated by a few years in age, what is the image that we are displaying to our children? 

Is there room in our society for Grandma to take on the role of teacher and sharer of wisdom?  My grandmother and many women of that generation weren’t having plastic surgery at 70 and getting waxed at 75.    What, did you say your granny can drop it like it’s hot?  Lawd have Mercy! 

I am sure my grandmother and her friends had their vices, but perhaps they weren’t so public.  Oh, I do remember my grandmother singing “Once, Twice, Three times a lady,” loudly in a department store one day.  Does that count as bad behavior? 

I think that perhaps I have just seen too many children without enough role models lately.  Yes, there are some spectacular grandmothers out there and I do know many of them.  My concern is for those who are growing up removed from the nuclear family, without the grandparents of yesteryear.

It’s interesting; my generation were children that were termed the latchkey kids. Many of my friends came home to an empty home after school, the result of the duo income household.  The next generation, saw the disappearance of the nuclear family.  As jobs took families further and further away from their place of origin, no longer did grandparents and children live within close proximity of each other.  The current generation I believe is the generation of video chat.  Even conversations with grandma happen via Skype and Facebook. 

Yes, my granny had plastic fruit and a plastic rug that we turned over every Sunday afternoon and walked barefoot on the prickly part, screaming in delight.  Granny sang in the church choir and cooked Sunday dinner.  She believed that for every church program we should learn a recitation and if we didn’t know our lines, she’d simply clasp her hands together, shake her head and say, Mercy!

What would have happened if Granny would have said, Duh?  

Craft

"A Friday in early September. We went by coach to La Rabida, near Huelva in southern Spain, to see the monastery where Christopher Columbus spent seven years trying to persuade the local literati and public dignitaries that it would be a good idea to fund his latest hair-brained scheme. He had a notion that the earth was round, not flat, can you believe it? And thus, that in theory it would be possible to sail  west and come right back round to where you started from a easterly direction, opening up lucrative new trade routes to India, etc. as he went. The reigning monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella were busy fighting wars elsewhere, but eventually returned to their palace nearby, and with the help persuasive powers and support of the Franciscan brothers, Columbus finally persuaded them to fund his voyages of exploration.

Two small, fast boats, caravels the Nina and the Pinta, and a larger supply ship, the Santa Maria, which was much heavier and less manoeuvrable, and which was eventually to flounder on rocks and not return with the other two, were commissioned, and on August 3rd 1492, set off on the perilous journey. As they say, the rest is history. Those of us who now enjoy holidays to Disneyworld, Florida have the old chap to thank for discovering the place.

Our holiday company had planned a visit to the monastery, to be followed by a short drive to the harbour area nearby, where there were exact replicas of the three tiny, fragile ships which had undertaken such arduous journeys. We were able to go on board the Nina and Pinta, but the Santa Maria, we were informed, was currently undergoing renovation.

This, it turned out, involved one solitary man in overalls, standing precariously in a rowing boat, which was tethered at either end to the larger vessel, and from which he was stretching up, paintbrush in hand , to repaint the outside. It put me in mind of the Forth Bridge saga, whereby the job is never finished, because as soon as the far end is reached, it’s time to start painting the front end again. Besides, the other two vessels seemed to be in need of some attention too, and would benefit from a few coats of varnish. We wondered if he’d gone to his branch of Spain’s equivalent of B&Q with his over 60’s discount card, to buy the countless ins of creosote he’d surely need to complete the job."
Penny from Across the Pond 

Fingernails In My Pencil Box

And for today’s lesson, we will study, reading, writing and red lipstick.  Class, class, let me have your attention, focus, focus!  Through the rustle of notebook paper and the sweet smell of bubble gum lip-gloss, we look through the window of the class of 2021.  The hallway is now a runway and the classroom is the stage.  The bright lights of the school cafeteria are blinding.

Act 1 – And So Are the Days of My Life

I recall my tween years fondly.  I recall that my poor mother had, well, no fashion sense.  If I wanted to be in style, I was going to have to find a way to support myself.  My mom did not know the difference between Prada and Prego.  Really, she meant well, but it was useless.  I remember when she selected a pair of yellow sweats and presented them to me for gym class!  I gasped!  Where, is the label?  I could not even dare to wear anything that was not labeled.  They are labeled, she said, they are “Wranglers!”  I finally began to save my own money and purchased my first pair of Jordache jeans and I was excited.  That horse on my what I believed to be too large African American back side made me so happy.  Ahh, Jordache!  Then, there was my love affair with handbags, yes, it began early.  My first knock off Gucci handbag, I carried it proudly, everyday until I landed my first real Fendi handbag.  So then, why do the actions of today’s youth surprise me? 

Act II  - Mirror Mirror

Enter Justice, Abercrombie, Teen Vogue, Teen People, and all of the other outside influences that simply did not exist.  Next, let’s bring in Disney gone wrong, Britney, Vanessa, Lyndsey, and lest we forget Hanna Nasty Girl Montanna , A.K.A. Miley Cyrus, you name them and they are not the Mickey Mouse Club that I grew up watching after school.  Now, having said that who are our children watching?  Those images in the magazines, those characters on television, are they setting the bar in regards to beauty and character for our children?  Are they forcing are children, especially, our girls to grow up too fast?  Perhaps they are not only setting the bar, but many of them are quite frankly sitting at the bar and displaying their behavior in a very public forum.

Act III – Everybody Else’s Mom Let’s Them Do It

How long does childhood last?  Trying to protect the child, while allowing the girl to bloom, that is the challenge.  What type of flower am I trying to cultivate?  Even a beautiful rose has its thorns.  The thorns I deal with are on the make-up aisle and the teen clothing aisle of every department store.

Saturday’s journey took me to Salley’s Beauty supply.  Once again, I begin the battle of the press on nails.  Now, mind you, it begins with, “Mom, all my friends get their nails done at the salon.”  “Mom, they all have fake nails, it’s not fair.”  Ok, so what, I have seen some of their friends and yes, they do have acrylic nails at 10 and 11 years old.  Buy why, why can’t 10 and 11 year olds grow their own nails?  Next, come the pleas for make-up, in my mind, I am remembering the episode of the Cosby Show, where Vanessa secretly put on make-up at school and got caught upon arriving at home.  Anyway, there was the time, when my oldest, put on a little colored lip-gloss before her school pictures and no one would be the wiser.  That is, until the pictures arrived and my husband called to me.  “Cassie, Cassie, when did this child’s lips get this color and so shiny?”  Oh my, I must have missed that on my way out the door that morning.  Ok, let’s go back to the make-up aisle.  Did I mention the colored hair?  Oh, Oh, I forgot, what about a tattoo, Mom, can I have a tattoo, or a piercing, like my teacher?  Funny, I just don’t remember any of my teachers having a tattoo or a piercing.  They probably just didn’t display it for the world. 

Act  IV – Dr. Spock Didn’t Write This Chapter

Well, I have read a few parenting books in my time.  One piece of advice I have tried to live up to is to pick my battles.  With that, you try to minimize the amount of times that you say no, to the heavy hitter items.  Ok, so I decided that I would give into the press on nails, not acrylic nails, the press on.  Secretly hoping, that they would be such a bother, that she would not wish to keep them on, or that the glue would be a problem.  But, she picked out her nails and put them on one by one, each one with more pride then the last.  Finally, the nails were on and she just knew she looked Beyoncé Fierce.  She picked out her outfit with care and dressed for school the next morning.  She even shared a nail or two with her sister.  The first day of wear for the nails was Monday and to my surprise, the nails made it through school and cheerleading practice.  Well now, I guess she will prove me wrong.  It is now Tuesday and as I assess the situations, which are the nails on her hands, I notice that a few nails are missing.  I ask, “Where, are the nails?”   “Mom, they are in my pencil box.” 

Silly me, where else would a 5^th grader keep her press on nails?