It's important to count your blessings, especially when your mind floats like a jellyfish in a dark ocean, thinking unsettling, bobbing, sea monster thoughts. And, of course, that's when it's hardest to be grateful for one single thing, let alone two or more. It is both awful and appealing to cast your lot with the mysterious deep, as if you had any say so in the matter. People say happiness is a choice—I've said it too to my own son—but I don't always believe it. Sometimes, you are simply drawn down—not waving, drowning*—as if searching for something in the blue waters of the unconscious mind. I don't really recommend it, but it happens to me regardless and I'm learning to live with it, if only for the catharsis I experience upon returning to the surface. I'm one of the lucky ones because I return.
Speaking of blessings, I’ve been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately. She had perfect posture, big hair, and always, seriously, a twinkle in her eye. This is no cliché, she really did. And she winked a lot. It was one of those great grandmotherly things. Whenever you did something embarrassing or silly and felt like an outsider, she would give that all-knowing, I’m-with-you wink that made you feel okay again. Mamaw was very pretty too: all cheekbones and blue eyes. I don’t remember a lot of wrinkles. Better to smile than wind up with a bulldog face like some of the women in choir, she’d say. She cleaned obsessively—my grandfather threatened to bury her with a roll of paper towels—and was a terrible cook. The only thing she would make perfectly was Angel fool cake, which came from a box.
As for her sense of humor, there’s a story from the early days of her marriage to my grandfather. He was a left-handed pitcher for the UT baseball team, “Lefty” Robertson, they called him. When they were going to play in New York, she really wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t have it. It was his chance to be with the guys, they were all going to stay together in a dorm, and nobody was bringing their wives. So she signaled her disappointment in a most original way. In those days, wives would pack their husbands’ bags when they went on a trip and Mamaw was a very good wife as well as a terrific seamstress. Before packing his luggage, she carefully sewed fine frilly lace on the bands of all of his underwear and then placed them with the rest of his gear in the bag. Surprise!
I never saw Mamaw sad, although she must have felt a great deal of grief in her day. My father, her second son, gave her more than her fair share. An alcoholic dreamer, he left a trail of wives and kids for others to care for. I don’t know him enough to cultivate hatred or forgiveness for him. He disappeared from my life when I was a toddler and did the same again and again with other wives and other toddlers. Mamaw and Ondaddy (my granddad) took up the slack. My brother and sister and I spent every Saturday night with them until I was a teenager, when I didn’t want to do that anymore. I don’t have many regrets in my life but I do regret that. I drifted away from them in my young adulthood and never really came back. If I could resurrect you through thoughts, Mamaw, I’d have you here with me now. Sweet dreams, my dear. I miss you.
*This is from a Stevie Smith poem
