Grandma meets Kegan

When I was in grammar school, the teachers would always ask me, “Joseph, why do you talk SO LOUD??” and my reply was simple and honest; “Try living with my Grandparents”. Yelling was the standard form of communication in my childhood home. My grandmother would start every conversation with “You need to speak loudly and s-l-o-w-l-y”.

Being raised by your Grandparents is not an easy thing for a kid. My daughter asked me just this past weekend if I ever had sleepovers at my house when I was a kid, to which I replied “No honey, I lived with my grandparents and my room used to be their closet before I moved in” Those are two things that make for an unattractive sleepover situation.

My Grandmother was a force to be reckoned with. She was the lady who called the cops on the local kids when they set off fireworks on the 4th of July (It’s quite illegal to do that in NY). She would send me to the corner grocery store and add up the receipt – if I was a penny short she would send me back to the store to get that penny just because of the principle of it. She once wrote a letter to a trucking company stating that two of their male drivers must have had a deep love interest with each other because they were driving next to each other and talking to each other through their windows, and they couldn’t get enough of each other to the point that they were holding up the passing lane. There was also the time I watched her lay down on the floor in the hallway and then when she was in the right position, she yelled bloody murder. She cried out that she had tripped over one of my toys that was on the floor where it didn’t belong! She didn’t know that I was behind her watching the whole thing unfold, and I didn’t bother telling her that either – it was always better to go along with her version of events.

My grandmother loved to cook, but unfortunately my grandparents both had special diets that older people tend to be on, and therefore most of her food had the consistency of leather boot soles with a side of soggy vegetables. It didn’t taste much better than that sounds either. My brother used to hide his food on the expansion slats underneath the dining room table because he couldn’t bring himself to eat some nights. The day she found his stash, she piled up the rotting food on his plate and made him sit there in front of it until bedtime. I was well known in high school as being the only senior that still ate cafeteria food every day because I thought it was amazing stuff! My friends thought I was weird.


My Grandparents

It may sound like I’m being hard on this woman, but she was a hard woman. She was also a caring and loving mother to me who spent her retirement raising my brother and I when we needed someone the most. She never had children of her own (she was my grandfather’s second wife), and she never once treated us like anything other than her own children. She never held it over our heads that she was doing us the biggest favor in the world by sacrificing her golden years for us – even when we went through our complete asshole teenage years. She always sincerely told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be and I never doubted it. She instilled a confidence in me that prevailed over the deep feelings of rejection and depression that can easily overcome those of us who come from a broken family. She genuinely loved me, and I loved her. It was through her that I learned the determination to become an artist, the work ethic to become an entrepreneur, and the courage to become a husband and father.

Thank you Grandma, I miss you.