My grandmother had a lot of power. Stoic, observant, selective about offering her opinions, she once said that she had aquired a tumor under her tongue from trying to swallow it. Still when she did speak you listened. You didn't have to be encouraged to listen. The quiet power of her voice resonated off something inside us that made it impossible not to believe everything she said without question.
Around puberty I found myself afflicted with seed warts under my nails, across my palms, on my finger tops. I tried everything to remove them. Doctors burned them off, Compound W was applied by the gallon, but in spite of being cut, burned and covered in any number of toxic substances in a vain attempt to remove this bane of my adolescent existence. After several months in complete despair of ever having soft, feminine wart free hands that were capable of gently holding someone else's hand at the skating rink, I was in a state of complete pubescent agony. Grandma quietly spoke up, "Honey, if you want to get rid of those things take this piece of black cotton thread and tie a knot in it for every wart. Bury it, forget it, don't tell a soul, and when the string rots all those nasty things will be gone."
I looked at her a bit disbelieving, careful not to voice my doubt, such disbelief would not do in front of Saint Sadie. I took the length of string, out the back door, carefully counting the warts on my hands as I went, wrapping knots, and thinking of the perfect place to bury my agony. I can't remember spending another day thinking about my warts.
I'm not sure how long it took for them to disappear, or why they never came back. I just know that it worked for me and my brother, and that even though I still do not have the perfect feminine extremity's, (in fact my sons refer to them as Mom's mitts), they have been since the day of Grandma's advice, blemish free.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sadie's Girl
I will, and always have been, Sadie's girl, of course if she heard me call her Sadie she would have pulled out the fly swatter, chased me through the screen out into the yard all the while entreating me with, "Good Lord Honey, when will you learn?"
The only one who ever got away with calling her Sadie was her youngest brother, George Raymond Hendricks, our dear "Uncle Ray". He would arrive every year with a box of Hershey bars from his roadside cafe in Black Hawk, Colorado, (where, according to the family history, he was Mayor for at least one term), proudly called "Ray & Anne's". One of the finer establishments in the quaint mountain village aspiring to be a city amid the boulders. They proudly displayed Anne's art and velvety rug hangings in rich colors of peacock, elk, and the various ages of Jesus. Each year they would arrive with a different rug, as appeasement, for the Hershey bars, (and moonshine), they were about to dispense, (and to make room for more of Anne's art on the walls of their establishment).
Hidden, somewhere in the bottom of my gregarious Uncle's luggage, wrapped in white t shirts that he would wear under his freshly pressed, long sleeved, light cotton, shirts, was a glass mason jar filled to the rim with liquid as clear as the finest spring water with a bite that burned like liquid lightening as soon as it passed your lips until it reached the bottom of your soles, and if you were still breathing at that point he'd smile and ask, "Need another?"Everyone knew that Grandma didn't approve, and so Uncle Ray would make a production of passing out his special treats of chocolate for the children and something stronger for the men in front of her because, "you should never do anything you're not proud of kids. . ." Until there would be about a cup left in the bottom of the jar. This he would carefully reseal and hand to Grandma who would roll her eyes and say, "I have what you left me last year." He'd laugh, a deep chuckle that rumbled the house, like thunder accompaning his white lightening and reply, "Sadie, you never know, you might need it, for "medicinal" uses," he'd smile and exclaim, "or I might!" Triumphantly adding to last year's jar.
She never indulged as far as I knew. There was a rumor that one of the twins had spiked the punch at a wedding without telling her choosing to see how she'd act when helped, but she never smelled of anything but vanilla to me. However, whenever it was mentioned, she'd get a sour look, and sigh and she refused to go anywhere with them for any extended periods of time again.
During one family conversation that was meant to encourage my piano practice she told me how she had played piano for the silent movies to support herself and Uncle Ray piped in, "and for the Speak Easy Sadie! Don't forget that!" Grandma rolled her eyes and replied, "Well Ray, that may be true but you know I was a good Baptist and I didn't drink or dance."
"But I know you watched Sadie, I know you watched."
"No law against watching Ray", and they both laughed.
I do remember one time when my brother had the measles accompanied by a high fever that wouldn't "break". After many grueling hours Grandma's solution was, "Give him a shot of whiskey, Liz." Which my mother promptly did, but it wasn't whiskey, it was Missouri moonshine, from Uncle Ray's mason jar in the back of the cupboard. The only liqour in the house. Hidden every year like clockwork just like Uncle Ray's arrival to hunt elk and mule tale deer in the Blue Mountains for a couple of weeks, or month with his nephews and great nephews. Most of this venison he'd leave in our freezer because, "Oh you know it will just spoil before I get it home." Sometimes we'd get lucky and he'd stay until Thanksgiving, teasing my mother, and grandmother, indulging me, and giving my brother a taste of what it would have been like if our father had lived, until my brother idolized him so much he later changed his own name to Ray.
I asked Grandma once why she didn't like being called Sadie, (not that I, or anyone in the neighborhood, ever called her anything but Grandma), and she said, "Sadie's a young girl's name." "You let Uncle Ray call you Sadie."
She rolled her eyes like always when Uncle Ray's name came up and sighed, "Like anything can stop Ray." Still I knew he was her favorite, and she was his. We'd spend all year marking the days off the calendar until their next visit like other families counted the days till Christmas or birthdays.
A blood clot finally stopped Uncle Ray on one of those fine November mornings that accompanied his visits. The doctor said it probably came loose as he raised his leg to kick my mom's bottom, because he always thought she needed it lifted. He made it back to "his" rocker the male version of Grandma's, laid his head on his shoulder, and mid sentence passed from our lives, forever taking "Sadie", and the last of Grandma's youth, with him.
The only one who ever got away with calling her Sadie was her youngest brother, George Raymond Hendricks, our dear "Uncle Ray". He would arrive every year with a box of Hershey bars from his roadside cafe in Black Hawk, Colorado, (where, according to the family history, he was Mayor for at least one term), proudly called "Ray & Anne's". One of the finer establishments in the quaint mountain village aspiring to be a city amid the boulders. They proudly displayed Anne's art and velvety rug hangings in rich colors of peacock, elk, and the various ages of Jesus. Each year they would arrive with a different rug, as appeasement, for the Hershey bars, (and moonshine), they were about to dispense, (and to make room for more of Anne's art on the walls of their establishment).
Hidden, somewhere in the bottom of my gregarious Uncle's luggage, wrapped in white t shirts that he would wear under his freshly pressed, long sleeved, light cotton, shirts, was a glass mason jar filled to the rim with liquid as clear as the finest spring water with a bite that burned like liquid lightening as soon as it passed your lips until it reached the bottom of your soles, and if you were still breathing at that point he'd smile and ask, "Need another?"Everyone knew that Grandma didn't approve, and so Uncle Ray would make a production of passing out his special treats of chocolate for the children and something stronger for the men in front of her because, "you should never do anything you're not proud of kids. . ." Until there would be about a cup left in the bottom of the jar. This he would carefully reseal and hand to Grandma who would roll her eyes and say, "I have what you left me last year." He'd laugh, a deep chuckle that rumbled the house, like thunder accompaning his white lightening and reply, "Sadie, you never know, you might need it, for "medicinal" uses," he'd smile and exclaim, "or I might!" Triumphantly adding to last year's jar.
She never indulged as far as I knew. There was a rumor that one of the twins had spiked the punch at a wedding without telling her choosing to see how she'd act when helped, but she never smelled of anything but vanilla to me. However, whenever it was mentioned, she'd get a sour look, and sigh and she refused to go anywhere with them for any extended periods of time again.
During one family conversation that was meant to encourage my piano practice she told me how she had played piano for the silent movies to support herself and Uncle Ray piped in, "and for the Speak Easy Sadie! Don't forget that!" Grandma rolled her eyes and replied, "Well Ray, that may be true but you know I was a good Baptist and I didn't drink or dance."
"But I know you watched Sadie, I know you watched."
"No law against watching Ray", and they both laughed.
I do remember one time when my brother had the measles accompanied by a high fever that wouldn't "break". After many grueling hours Grandma's solution was, "Give him a shot of whiskey, Liz." Which my mother promptly did, but it wasn't whiskey, it was Missouri moonshine, from Uncle Ray's mason jar in the back of the cupboard. The only liqour in the house. Hidden every year like clockwork just like Uncle Ray's arrival to hunt elk and mule tale deer in the Blue Mountains for a couple of weeks, or month with his nephews and great nephews. Most of this venison he'd leave in our freezer because, "Oh you know it will just spoil before I get it home." Sometimes we'd get lucky and he'd stay until Thanksgiving, teasing my mother, and grandmother, indulging me, and giving my brother a taste of what it would have been like if our father had lived, until my brother idolized him so much he later changed his own name to Ray.
I asked Grandma once why she didn't like being called Sadie, (not that I, or anyone in the neighborhood, ever called her anything but Grandma), and she said, "Sadie's a young girl's name." "You let Uncle Ray call you Sadie."
She rolled her eyes like always when Uncle Ray's name came up and sighed, "Like anything can stop Ray." Still I knew he was her favorite, and she was his. We'd spend all year marking the days off the calendar until their next visit like other families counted the days till Christmas or birthdays.
A blood clot finally stopped Uncle Ray on one of those fine November mornings that accompanied his visits. The doctor said it probably came loose as he raised his leg to kick my mom's bottom, because he always thought she needed it lifted. He made it back to "his" rocker the male version of Grandma's, laid his head on his shoulder, and mid sentence passed from our lives, forever taking "Sadie", and the last of Grandma's youth, with him.
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