Cover Your Ears! It's My Granny!

I don't often talk about my grandmother. She wasn't the sweet southern grandmother who baked cookies and played games with you. But she did teach me things--much of which, she probably shouldn't have.

Briefly, my grandmother taught me a different language: blue.

She was not G-rated. The four girls in her family were sent off to finishing school one by one, but my grandmother bailed out. Literally. She'd climb out the window and meet boys behind the store. While others were learning table settings and thank you's, my grandmother was learning tobacco and trash talk.

We called her Nannie. Most insensitively, we addressed her mother as OLD Nannie. (If I'm around for great-grandchildren, I'll refuse to answer to that. Just sayin'.)

Whereas her younger sisters were Estee Lauder and lace, my grandmother was snuff and plain frocks. The pair of bloomers and the industrial strength bra in her bureau drawer came out only for rare visits to the doctor. Generally, it was cotton slip and baggy house dress, with gartered stockings rolled below her knees or down to her ankles, depending on the season. She wore the stockings to make her sensible leather shoes slide on and off more easily, not for any semblance of fashion.

We had dinner at noon, always meats and vegetables cooked on a gas stove with the burners on high. She wasn't much on patience. Forget herbs and spices; bacon grease seasoned everything--collards, cabbage, beans, okra.

My grandfather died before I was born, but she had a boyfriend who came on Friday nights as long as I could remember. Bebow Brownley came bearing gifts: newspaper-wrapped fish which Nannie prepared for supper and a small bag of penny candy and Mounds and Almond Joy bars to keep me busy rotting my teeth while the two lovebirds held hands and rocked slowly on the backyard glider.

His name wasn't Bebow, but I never knew what it was. Nannie's baby sister told me to call him that, but she said it between whoops of laughter, so I knew I shouldn't. Nannie called him Sweetheart.

Yech.

Dang! I'm off topic already. What my grandmother taught me... that's where I'm supposed to be going with this. Drama. My grandmother was the queen of daytime drama long before soap operas began.

Honesty: Things couldn't simply be true, but "I raise my hand for God to strike me dead if it's not so," complete with the right arm raised skyward. Scarlett O'Hara's oath was breezy by comparison. On less serious matters, Nannie would just "hope to die" if she was lying.

Economics: Folks weren't just hard-up, they were "poorer than owl shit."

My Address: I was pretty much left to my own devices at her house, but if I did something she didn't like, she'd roll her eyes and announce dramatically, "You live in The Land of Do-As-You-Please around here."

Be a Loyal Customer: Many of the things in the house were manufactured by a company named G.D. Always just initials. The pilot light on the g.d. stove failed, the g.d. lawnmower needed work, etc.

Quality: If something had no value, it wasn't just worthless, it was "not worth a fart in a whirlwind."

Perseverance: If she had an unpleasant task ahead of her, she didn't simply dread it, she'd "rather be put behind a mule and farted to death."

Mental Gymnastics: A neighbor wasn't just in a bad mood, she "had her ass on her shoulders" about something.

On the Opposite Sex: Worthless men (and most were, according to her) might be "the sorriest thing ever to shit between two shoe heels."

How to Tell Time: If asked the time, she might tell you. Then again, she might intone, with great solemnity, "Half past the crack of my ass. Fifteen minutes to farting time."

No one wanted to be around for that show, believe me. All that bacon grease could create enough oomph to ruffle her frock when it blasted its way to the surface. Years later, my husband would muse, "Your grandmother's house always smelled like gas and collards."

He'd just assumed it came from the kitchen.