I remember driving out to my paternal grandpa Herbâs house in the lower valley, one of the oldest neighborhoods in town which was kind of an agricultural area where people had larger plots of land; irrigation ditches lined either side of the street. His neighbor had a pony that would sometimes be in their front yard, to my excitement and delight.
Upon our arrival, would sit me down in his living room, first thing, to give me porcelain dolls and Scooby Doo toys and VHS tapes he had ordered from QVC or catalogues. My dadâs and uncleâs playroom was still perfectly preserved as it was when they were kids in the 1950s, filled with their toys and books, the walls and decor all painted in bright primary colors of blue and yellow and red. My deceased grandmotherâs pewter vanity set was still arranged on her makeup table in their bedroom, her glass shoe and bell collections still sitting on their display shelves atop a glass-topped desk lined with pink satin and lace. He had a huge library filled with booksâHemingway, Thoreau, Faulkner, Steinbeck, etc.
His kitchen smelled like the old bananas he would buy and forget to eat. I remember running out into his backyard in the winter to crack the frozen water in the stone bird bath and the dry mud beneath my feet; walking through the groves of pecan and pomegranate trees and picking up the fallen treats!
He had a stroke one day and was lying on the ground for a few hours before anyone found him. I remember finding out right before my mom took me and my sister to the grocery storeâI said we should get him flowers. When we returned home, we learned that he had passed. I was 6 years old. I lamented that it couldnât have been my other grandfather instead. I was even angrier now that he wanted me to call him Papa; that was a name that could only belong to Herb. We picked out all of his things to keep before the estate saleâmy grandmotherâs bells and shoes found a new home in my bedroom, on their same display shelf, which would become my desk; many of his books have moved with me wherever Iâve gone.
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Visiting my maternal grandparents in third grade⌠my nice aunt was supposed to pick us up from DFW airport but something came up so my other aunt came instead. She was very late; we were sitting there for at least an hour, maybe two. I was reading my hardcover copy of Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis, which I had just won as a prize for getting first place in the spelling bee.
By the time my aunt finally came, my mother was in a tizzyâand it didnât help that they already had a bad relationship. They started arguing with each other and my aunt dumped all of our luggage out of the trunk of her BMW in the middle of the pickup area road. They continued to fight on the drive, started slapping and clawing at each other with my aunt at the wheel.Â
We pulled over at a gas station in Grapevine, Texas and they got out of the carâscreaming and hitting each other, circling the gas pumps. I was used to this kind of thing happening; I was just trying to focus on my book. Someone working at the gas station called the police. They asked my mom if she wanted to press charges against my aunt, who I guess was the primary aggressor, and my mom declined. The sheriffâs office gave me an honorary deputy sticker or badge.
My auntâs millionaire new husband (when they met, she was married to her first husband, and he was her boss) retrieved our luggage from the airport and brought it to us, apologizing profusely. We walked to the Double Tree hotel across the street where my auntâs husband had booked us a room; my grandfather was coming to get us now but he lived further out in the country, so it was going to be a while until he could get to us. I still remember the warm chocolate chip cookie they gave me at the front desk.
We waited in our room and looked up a pizza delivery place in the phone book. My sister had the worst ARFID Iâve ever personally seen in a person to this day, so it was a great victory that we were able to get her to eat pizza with red sauceâI remember feeling my momâs tangible relief. The crust was thin and the slices were cut into squares.
My grandfather came after nightfall and we drove all the way home in what I recall to be terse silenceâI was glad to be able to read my book now. My grandfather seemed to place all of the blame entirely on my mother, based on what I had heard of their brief conversation, which I thought was odd. We got out of the sliding doors of the Honda minivan and I felt the warm damp lake air hitting me like a wall, heard the crickets chirping in the dark. We entered the house through the garage and my grandmother gave me a stiff hug and a peck on the cheek to greet me before going to bed. She smelled like powder and tuberose. My mom had to pretend like nothing was wrong. We walked through their big empty house and went our separate waysâmy mom went to her room and my sister and I settled into ours, trying our best to go to sleep in our frilly little twin beds.Â
