My first memory of my Granny Joan is of her sizing me up in her living room. She was lying on her couch in a house dress and I was standing in the middle of the room, my dad perched on a recliner but not reclining in the least. Granny Joan’s eyes were slits and her nose was sneered like she just bit into the sourest Granny Smith apple ever plucked from the branch. I’ll admit I wasn’t much to look at. I had long knotted hair and hand-me-down clothes that didn’t fit the way store bought clothes usually did. I had that outdoor smell. The one children get when they’ve been sweating in the sun all day and then drip dried as the air cooled in the evening. I was relieved when she turned her glare to my dad. He rarely sat down, it was custom on the Kimmel side of the family to stand. It was nothing personal. It didn’t mean that we weren’t going to stay for a few hours and visit. Kimmels were just like that. It was odd seeing him sit, his back straight as a preacher. He seemed different, smaller somehow. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was a test. My dad needed someone to watch me in the evenings and she was the last resort. This visit was scheduled for her to determine if she had time to watch me or if she didn’t. Had I known what I was in for, I probably would have found some way to convince my dad that I was old enough to take care of myself.
Granny Joan was from the strictly Irish side of the family. There was a very solid sense of pride in her. I’m not sure if it was her pride or if it was pure meanness that made her the way she was. It was a rare occurrence for her to give a kind word. It was even rarer for any kindness not to be followed by downright nastiness. I sometimes think that she agreed to watch me only to see me fail at the tasks she would give me. I was horrible at making instant coffee; it was never right. I couldn’t do laundry the way it was meant to be done. I made stupid mistakes. She had some sort of disorder that made her bleed. One of my tasks was to walk behind her if she got up to use the bathroom or go in the kitchen and clean up the trail of blood she left behind. It’s hard to mess up something like that. It was the one job I was good at, so while I was repulsed by it, I relished in the fact that I wasn’t screwing up. I distinctly remember her saying that all of her grandchildren were just fine, except for me. She never really explained why. I think it was just the nastiest comment should could think of at the time.
Granny Joan recently came up in conversation in a morning phone call from my dad. I’m not sure how we wound up on her; she just sort of popped up. My dad told me about when his dad left. He was the oldest and got the brunt of his mama’s meanness. He guessed it was because he reminded her of his dad. She lit into him like nothing else until one day when he told her that if she whooped on him again, he would whoop her right back. He was never good enough for her and he said he reckoned that’s why I wasn’t good enough either. When we hung up, I had a new appreciation for my dad. I understood why he looked so small when we went for that first visit. You can only be beaten down and ripped apart so many times until you are just a shred of who you should be. I was also able to understand where some of his anger and nastiness came from and I found myself wishing that he would have shared that part of his life with me a long time ago.
