Appreciation

On Sunday last I ventured to Florence Street. Those closest to me know what that means.

I had a dream about my grandfather a few nights ago, and it prompted me to go and visit, which I need to do far more often. Sunday was the first time I’d seen my grandparents in nearly two months. Shameful, I am aware.

The visit began as my visits to their house often do, with me locked out. I knocked three separate times, the cousin that had accompanied me also knocked, more loudly than I, but to no avail. Finally, I pulled out my cell phone and called their house line, alerting them to the fact that I was indeed on their front porch enjoying the 106-degree heat.

When I entered, things seemed as usual. Oversized portraits of grandchildren decked the walls, flanked on either side by prints of our honorary cousins, John Wayne and Chuck Norris, better known as Walker Texas Ranger. My grandpa greeted me with, “Well, I’ll be,” and a hug. My grandma, however, walked within five feet of me several times without realizing I was in the room. But, when she eventually did, I received a warm embrace, promptly followed by an intense interrogation session that her grandchildren collectively refer to as “100 questions.” In actuality, there are only five questions, but they are repeated 20 times. She forgets and I love her, so I answer them repeatedly with repeated enthusiasm.

After these niceties, we (that being my newly arrived aunt and uncle, and me) pointed out that my grandparent’s 62nd wedding anniversary is this week, to which my grandmother replied, “Big deal.” She’s never quite gotten over the whole bed-of-roses scam that she believes marriage to be. She and my grandpa bicker quite a bit, but I know they love each other. Years ago my grandma was hospitalized with a heart-related issue. On a Sunday morning, my grandpa went into the hospital to check on her before going to church. Upon leaving the hospital he was T-boned and taken right back into the emergency room with a concussion. My grandma found out he was injured, but of course, wasn’t allowed to go and see him. When he was finally released in the early evening, he went straight to the elevators and up to her room. With tears streaming down his face, he walked in, his generally slow and stooped form moving with vigor, went straight to her bedside, where she was also in tears, and kissed her. It was the most precious sight I have ever witnessed. Unrivaled. Period.

Nevertheless, on Sunday, my grandma’s dander was up. No doubt the result of my mischievous uncle agitating her with picture shows, hamburgers and slop buckets, but that’s another blog, and I digress. My sweet grandpa shared the oversized musical Father’s Day card he received from another aunt and uncle. He’s very proud of it, as he is still sharing it in August, and Father’s Day was June 19. I opened it and looked, as did others, and my grandmother watched and waited. Like a spider. Then she said, “ I’ve got something better than that.”

She rose from her rocking chair and disappeared into a bedroom. Conversation continued in her absence and we all forgot her threat, but ten minutes later, she emerged. I know now that she went into that room and spent TEN MINUTES searching for something, anything that would one-up my sweet PawPaw’s musical Father’s Day card. I love her, but she’s ornery. Any of her five children or 14 grandchildren will tell you so.

What she carried in her hands was a framed drawing. She passed it in front of my Aunt Wilma first and stated that somebody named Johnny had given it to her, to which we all responded, more or less, “Who the #$%^ is Johnny?” There is no one in our family named Johnny.

As the art piece made its way around the room and closer to me, I caught a brief glimpse, and familiarity washed over me. My uncle was still trying to figure out who Johnny was, I was trying to remember where I had seen this lovely drawing of a feathered creature before, and my aunt said the magic words, “That has Rachel’s name on it.”

That’s right! I drew that bird in seventh grade, not Johnny! Whoever that is! I staked my claim on the art, backed up by others, but I’m reasonably certain Phantom Johnny will continue to get credit for it in my absence, despite my signature (in fine seventh grade penmanship) being etched along the breast of the bird. Oh well, it momentarily drew attention away from the Father’s Day card, and thus brought my grandmother great pleasure, which was my intention when I gave her the drawing ### years ago. Mission accomplished.