Grannie's House
Jo Christian Babich
We were the best of kids; we were the worst of kids. We were the smartest kids in the world; we didn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain. We were adored; we were deplored.
And we frequently ran away from home.
We always lit out for the same place — a little house we knew that smelled of hot muffins and cut flowers. There were hooked rugs on the floors and organdy curtains at the windows, and it was perfectly all right to play with the knickknacks on the mantelpiece and the pots and pans in the cupboard.
Everything was all right, at Grannie's house.
There was a garden, a hammock, and a birdbath where mockingbirds played. There were big old trees, and a swing hanging from long ropes, and a glider swing, too. To me, it was closer to heaven than any place I could possibly imagine.
I must have been around five when I began my career as a runaway. Grannie lived about a mile from our house then, just far enough away to make it a scary expedition.
There was a busy street to cross, then a big, forbidden park where tramps sometimes slept under trees. After the park, there was a tied-up barking dog to get past, then it was down the hill to safety.
Soon I would be perched on a stool in Grannie's kitchen and something for comfort would be baking in the oven.
Then the phone would ring. Grannie would pick it up, say, "Hello," "Yes," and hang up. I knew exactly how the other end of the conversation went: "Jo there? "—and after Grannie's "Yes"—plonk! Down with the receiver! I was often present in that other house when Mamma was making such a call. "Judy there?"— Plonk! "George Jr. there?"—Plonk! When that was out of the way, a person could relax. Mamma never came rushing over. Once we'd gained Grannie's house, we were home free. It was an unspoken rule. I'm not sure the rule was established without earlier bloodshed, but never—at least not in my memory—did Mamma take on Grannie face to face. She did her complaining to Daddy. "George," she would say firmly, "you have got to speak to your mother! She's spoiling those kids rotten! If I raise my voice one tee-ninee bit they go hightailing it to Grannie's!" And Daddy might reply: "Rube—you've never in your life raised your voice one tee-ninee bit!" But the arrangement probably worked as well for Mamma as it did for us kids. Our family quarrels never got resolved; they just eventually petered out. In the meantime, it really didn't pay to stick around. As Kipling so aptly suggested: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds worth of distance run . . . At our house, it was a prudent child who recognized that minute and started running. Mamma always waited till everything had cooled down before she showed up at Grannie's. That was usually not until the day after the blow-up, and sometimes it wasn't for two or three days, or even more. When she finally appeared, it marked the end of that particular incident. She and Grannie would greet each other cordially—"What's new? Did you hear about such-and-such?" "No! You don't say! Well, I never!"—neither referring to whatever child was currently enjoying asylum. Then the two of them would take a stroll about the yard, discussing just about everything except what was really happening there. But in those earlier days, strolling together and making small talk, they were simply keeping the truce in their perpetual, silent war. After enough time had elapsed to constitute a visit, Mamma would say, "Well, gotta get going. Zillion things to do today." Grannie would say, "What's your hurry?"—but they both would be walking toward the car. The runaway always climbed in without protest, fortified by custards, cupcakes, and the less tangible nourishment enjoyed at Grannie's house, and ready to take on the ups and downs of life at home again. For a little while, things were sure to be unnaturally peaceful and pleasant, but only for a little while. Soon enough there would be another unforgiving minute, and it would be time to hightail it to Grannie's again. Grannie lived in four different houses during the years of my growing up, and I ran away to each of them in turn. Every time she decided to move from a place I cherished to some shabby rent-house, I begged her not to do it, and every time I had to relearn what she knew all along—that it made absolutely no difference. Almost immediately the familiar things would be in place—the hooked rugs on newly polished floors, the crisp organdy curtains on freshly washed windows—and the once-dreary house would seem to glow, as if it had been waiting for just those things. The same old luscious aromas were soon wafting from the kitchen, while outside—with the hammock, swings, and birdbath right where they belonged—the flower garden for the truce walks appeared to spring up overnight. It was a movable haven Grannie provided, and I like to think she knew—because she had a way of knowing such things—that it was good for a lifetime. For whenever I feel the world closing in around me and I grow weary beyond belief of having to be one of the grownups, I still run away to Grannie's. All I have to do is close my eyes and imagine a Texas storm on a spring night: Thunder crackles and booms. Lightning illuminates eerie, swaying trees outside the window. Nature is on a rampage. But I am tucked up in a quilted bed at Grannie's house. I nestle beneath the covers and listen to the fury of the storm, knowing I'll wake to the smell of muffins baking in the kitchen; to sunshine sifting through organdy curtains, and birds singing on the wet window ledge; to a freshly washed world where everything's all right, and I am the best of kids. Jo Christian Babich from The Lavender Tree, copyright 2001
I can still see them going through their little ritual; each with her arms folded across her midriff, walking slowly through the garden, absorbed in casual conversation. How different they were! Pretty, brown-haired Mamma, restless and feisty, now on her best behavior; calm, gray-haired Grannie, tall and thin, her enormous brown eyes noncommittal behind rimless glasses. Two strong-willed women, adversaries and allies at the same time, each playing her part in their curious game! Back then I'm sure they never dreamed that in the future they were to be each other's greatest source of strength; for the mother-in-law was to see the younger woman through the tragedy of early widowhood, and, much later still, the devotion of that fierce daughter-in-law would sustain Grannie through her final, helpless years.
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