My grandma (my mother’s mother) passed away in November. This is in fact, the same “crazy” grandmother that I have written about several times and told many, many stories of elsewhere. I haven’t written about this until now for several reasons; however, the largest being that I thought it best for some time to pass before I wrote anything sarcastic or perhaps distasteful about my deceased grandmother. I don’t know how well the rest of the family would have taken me cracking on grandma when the wound was fresh. Some time has passed and I now feel it’s alright to talk about her in my own obnoxious, honest, heartfelt way.
Keep in mind that I never met her until I was 18 years old. Talk about awkward—I don’t know that I said five words to her that day. It was so surreal for me to meet this woman that I had envisioned in my head my entire life. We had one picture of her in the house I grew up in. It hung in our back hallway in a collage frame. This collage was always intriguing to me, to say the least. It contained pictures of people that I remembered only by name as most of them were just that. Names.
This side of the family has its issues, to be conservative with the judgments. I knew most of my cousins, aunts and uncles as a small child but one by one they all disappeared from my life. Eventually, I did end up regaining relationships with most of my cousins as an adult, but as a child I never knew them. I had a few treasured memories of them growing up that I held dear to my heart.
My mother and her mother stopped talking before I was even conceived. As with the other family members that we were “excommunicated” from, I may never know the reasoning behind why this happened. I suppose it doesn’t even matter now. However, I missed out on so much from the problems that they could never work out, as did my younger brother.
When people hurt you, you just act as if they don’t exist and you never talk about it and it alllll goes away. At least that’s what they do in my family. This is the exact reason why I am one of the black sheep in that family. (A title I wear proudly, btw.) I just could never seem to fit within that little mold. I no longer try. I’m much happier not trying to fit within someone else’s mold. I have a nice little mold of my own.
My grandma was not the best mother in the world. Some of the stories I’ve heard are quite horrifying. I can’t imagine what it was like growing up like that and I don’t know that I want to. I have my own issues about how I was raised; however, honestly it was a cakewalk compared to what some people had to live with.
When I first met her I didn’t know what to think. I had heard so many stories and didn’t know which ones were true and which ones were completely exaggerated. (This being another tendency my family tends to have.) I just looked at the experience as a blank slate. We took things as they came.
I didn’t really have a relationship with her for several years after this as well. It’s a long, twisted story…but here is the short version: I was kicked out of my house and not allowed to communicate with anyone in the family because I was dating a boy that was interracial. Even after I stopped dating him, the idea that I HAD was strong enough to keep everyone from wanting anything to do with me for thirteen years.
But this story isn’t about me…
The relationship between me and grandma didn’t really exist until I was going through my divorce and living back in my hometown with my parents on lockdown. We’d go to visit her occasionally, and she’d call me often at their house just to talk. She’d tell me some crazy story and it kept me blogging for days. And of course, every time you heard the story it was different and more dramatic. She was a basket case.
A dog walk gone wrong starts out as an, “I tripped over the leash and skinned my knee” story to, “I was lying facedown in a pool of blood--the police found me and took me home”. HA! Some people would get annoyed at her desperate cries for attention, but me…I found it comedic. True, I was never the target of any of her stories and / or exaggerations and it may have been different if I were, but usually they were about herself or things that didn’t really matter in the grand scale of things.
I would do anything I could to instigate the situation. I’d listen to her story and add little comments here and there to keep that party rollin’. This was also an excellent source of getting under my mother's skin. She’d get so upset at me for feeding into Grandma’s crazy world. What can I say? It was fun.
She was entertaining, to say the least. I called her my “Crazy Grandma” to everyone and some of my friends still lovingly refer to the stories of her and maintain this supreme title. It fit her well and knowing Grandma, she would have been happy to wear the crown (or anything with plastic jewels).
I don’t know the circumstances involved in her life before I knew her—I knew her as this person. I’m not blind to what she may have been and what she may have put others through. I’m not naïve either. But I have many stories of her to pass on that are good memories. I guess I can just leave it at that. She was old. She could get away with it. I know that when I’m old I’ll definitely use that excuse. It worked so well for Grandma.
She ended up in her final years struggling with Alzheimer’s disease. She eventually didn’t even know who I was when others’ spoke of me. I didn’t call her. It would have confused her even more, to be honest. I was in Georgia by then and she may have recognized my face, but she would never have known my voice. Some claim the craziness was due to the early-onset of the disease, but I know better. The craziness wasn’t loss of memory…it was her personality. She was like that long before the Alzheimer’s set in.
It was bitter-sweet, my relationship with her. I had a very short time with her even though she lived to be 96 years old. It may sound crazy, but I’d rather have had this than nothing at all.
Keep in mind that I never met her until I was 18 years old. Talk about awkward—I don’t know that I said five words to her that day. It was so surreal for me to meet this woman that I had envisioned in my head my entire life. We had one picture of her in the house I grew up in. It hung in our back hallway in a collage frame. This collage was always intriguing to me, to say the least. It contained pictures of people that I remembered only by name as most of them were just that. Names.
This side of the family has its issues, to be conservative with the judgments. I knew most of my cousins, aunts and uncles as a small child but one by one they all disappeared from my life. Eventually, I did end up regaining relationships with most of my cousins as an adult, but as a child I never knew them. I had a few treasured memories of them growing up that I held dear to my heart.
My mother and her mother stopped talking before I was even conceived. As with the other family members that we were “excommunicated” from, I may never know the reasoning behind why this happened. I suppose it doesn’t even matter now. However, I missed out on so much from the problems that they could never work out, as did my younger brother.
When people hurt you, you just act as if they don’t exist and you never talk about it and it alllll goes away. At least that’s what they do in my family. This is the exact reason why I am one of the black sheep in that family. (A title I wear proudly, btw.) I just could never seem to fit within that little mold. I no longer try. I’m much happier not trying to fit within someone else’s mold. I have a nice little mold of my own.
My grandma was not the best mother in the world. Some of the stories I’ve heard are quite horrifying. I can’t imagine what it was like growing up like that and I don’t know that I want to. I have my own issues about how I was raised; however, honestly it was a cakewalk compared to what some people had to live with.
When I first met her I didn’t know what to think. I had heard so many stories and didn’t know which ones were true and which ones were completely exaggerated. (This being another tendency my family tends to have.) I just looked at the experience as a blank slate. We took things as they came.
I didn’t really have a relationship with her for several years after this as well. It’s a long, twisted story…but here is the short version: I was kicked out of my house and not allowed to communicate with anyone in the family because I was dating a boy that was interracial. Even after I stopped dating him, the idea that I HAD was strong enough to keep everyone from wanting anything to do with me for thirteen years.
But this story isn’t about me…
The relationship between me and grandma didn’t really exist until I was going through my divorce and living back in my hometown with my parents on lockdown. We’d go to visit her occasionally, and she’d call me often at their house just to talk. She’d tell me some crazy story and it kept me blogging for days. And of course, every time you heard the story it was different and more dramatic. She was a basket case.
A dog walk gone wrong starts out as an, “I tripped over the leash and skinned my knee” story to, “I was lying facedown in a pool of blood--the police found me and took me home”. HA! Some people would get annoyed at her desperate cries for attention, but me…I found it comedic. True, I was never the target of any of her stories and / or exaggerations and it may have been different if I were, but usually they were about herself or things that didn’t really matter in the grand scale of things.
I would do anything I could to instigate the situation. I’d listen to her story and add little comments here and there to keep that party rollin’. This was also an excellent source of getting under my mother's skin. She’d get so upset at me for feeding into Grandma’s crazy world. What can I say? It was fun.
She was entertaining, to say the least. I called her my “Crazy Grandma” to everyone and some of my friends still lovingly refer to the stories of her and maintain this supreme title. It fit her well and knowing Grandma, she would have been happy to wear the crown (or anything with plastic jewels).
I don’t know the circumstances involved in her life before I knew her—I knew her as this person. I’m not blind to what she may have been and what she may have put others through. I’m not naïve either. But I have many stories of her to pass on that are good memories. I guess I can just leave it at that. She was old. She could get away with it. I know that when I’m old I’ll definitely use that excuse. It worked so well for Grandma.
She ended up in her final years struggling with Alzheimer’s disease. She eventually didn’t even know who I was when others’ spoke of me. I didn’t call her. It would have confused her even more, to be honest. I was in Georgia by then and she may have recognized my face, but she would never have known my voice. Some claim the craziness was due to the early-onset of the disease, but I know better. The craziness wasn’t loss of memory…it was her personality. She was like that long before the Alzheimer’s set in.
It was bitter-sweet, my relationship with her. I had a very short time with her even though she lived to be 96 years old. It may sound crazy, but I’d rather have had this than nothing at all.
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