For Grandma

My holidays were thrown into a topsy-turvy when my grandmother died just four days before Christmas. The last two days of shopping had an undertow of concern for my father, who had already been caring for her as the final phases of Alzheimer’s settled in. The joys of Christmas Eve and Day were succeeded by the lamentations of the casket viewing, funeral, and wake. Dad summed up this wacky calendar best: sad-sad-happy-happy-sad-sad. Lots of emotional gear-shifting.

Grandma had three callings. First, she was tremendously devoted to her family. She embodied the perfectly doting Italian mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and wife. Yes, she was always a devoted wife, even though she was a widow for much longer. Grandpa died before my parents even married, but I’m still able to create a pretty strong image of the man based on Grandma’s affectionate descriptions. She talked often of a “house filled with laughter” and remarked at how much Grandpa would’ve enjoyed the way all of his grandchildren have blossomed into loving families of their own. (Even though she would constantly refer to my sister as the “only unmarried one”, I argue she’s built a pretty close-knit family also, comprised of friends who have dined with my parents many times, a great partner, and a wonderful dog!)

Grandma’s second calling was her art. Her paintings now occupy eight different homes, but she was also an actress who loved to dance. Even into her seventies and early eighties, she was taking line-dancing classes and performing in plays at local senior centers. She enjoyed crafts, as well, evidenced by the collection of clothespins that she painted and costumed into figurines. It’s the best testament to her Depression-era spirit – turning humble objects into whimsical artwork.

She also wrote poetry, which brings me to her one calling that went unrealized. Since her youth, Grandma wanted to be an English teacher. I think she longed to share the inner workings of the artistic process with students anxious to discover their inner voice. School supplanted her family as a place where Grandma could shape an identity for herself that was independent of her upbringings. She wanted to afford the same opportunities to her own students, but she met Grandpa very young and married her the September right after her high school graduation. By the time, he died, the thought of entering a university at almost-fifty years old appeared too daunting. The fates didn’t work in her favor, but I hope to fill (at least partially) that small pothole in history.

Today, you’re invited to attend the first ever online blog-seminar (bloginar?) on the Poetry of Grandma P.

In our first selection, notice how Grandma uses the literary devices of dialogue and especially dialect (writing with an “accent”, so to speak) to enhance her themes:

“Molly’s Business Career”

Into an office one day walked Molly,

The morning was bright and she was jolly.

Her hair was red and her eyes were blue,

With a hat on her head that perched askew.

She was chewing gum with a circular motion,

And carried a pup with much devotion.

Her nails were crimson and slightly dirty,

Though she was twenty, she looked like thirty.

She asked for the boss, with a smack of her gum,

Said, “Come on, make it snappy, it’s almost one.”

She was shown to his desk, where he sat very busy,

Her cheap brand of perfume made him quite dizzy.

Erasing a frown, he asked her her mission.

She replied with much slang, “I wanna position.”

“I have one,” he said, “do you think you can fill it?”

“Sure,” she replied, “come on, Mister, spill it.”

“It calls for a girl with a business-like mind,

I don’t think,” he ventured, “that you’re quite the kind.”

“Oh, no,” Molly said, “listen, I got poise,

Why, say, I’m a card around the boys.”

“Oh, I can take letters, that is in a pinch,

Boy! with me on the job, this joint’s a cinch.”

The gentleman frownd, what on earth should he do?

His business had no place for this girl, he knew.

“Really, Miss__” he stuttered, he’d forgotten her name.

“Molly,” she prompted, “or Toots, it’s the same.”

“Well now,” he stammered, “I’m sorry to find,

You’re not quite the girl, but I’ll keep you in mind.”

“O.K.,” she retorted, “it ain’t nuttin’ to me,

But boy, kid, you’ll sure be sorry, you see.

Well, guess I’ll be blowin’, if you ain’t got a thing.

If you should change your mind, just give me a ring.”

So out Molly tripped, her dog on its leash,

And the man gave a sigh, for at last he had peace.

Now, this tale isn’t quite what I would call true,

But there’s a moral found in it for me and for you.

So remember when you’re out to find your success,

Just be nice and polite and just do your best.

If this rule you will follow, in years to come,

When the next president’s elected, maybe you’ll be the one.

Grandma wrote this at age seventeen. Pretty remarkable talent for such a young poet. She was probably the student her English teachers loved to see in class every day. I certainly would have enjoyed teaching her.

The final poem we’ll examine was written much later and shows a great maturity in Grandma’s craft. The meter runs more consistently and the rhymes are not just convenient, but powerful. Coupled with a strong sense of imagery and symbolism, Grandma skillfully uses a device known as synecdoche (pronounced “sin-ECK-duh-key”). This occurs when someone or something is described by using a term that refers to one of its parts. A great example would be the San Francisco Giants – another of Grandma’s favorite pastimes – being referenced as a team with “four great arms”. Of course, given the roster size, there are actually close to fifty arms on the team. However, sportswriters often use the term “arm” to refer to a pitcher, or in this case, the Giants’ four starting pitchers from 2010’s championship season. The use of “arm” to refer to a pitcher is a great example of synecdoche, and Grandma uses the device to great effect here:

“Reflections”

Sometimes I wonder who I am

And am I really here?

How can I feel so all alone

With those who care so near?

Does the mirror that reflects me

Assure me I am me?

If that same mirror disappeared,

Would I then cease to be?

The eyes where I once saw myself

Gave reason for my being.

I saw myself as they saw me

And reveled in their seeing.

But when those eyes so softly closed,

‘Twas but a gentle flutter,

That simple movement shook the earth

And all my mirrors shattered.

Both sights and sounds surround us,

Some imagined, few are real.

We only choose the bits of them

That to each of us appeal.

New images I search for now,

The ones I’ve not yet seen.

Too long I took for granted

The one that showed me queen.

When the lonely days are darkest,

As if the nights to match,

I close my eyes to see the ones,

Still closed, but keeping watch.

I must not let them see me fall,

They guide and bid me on.

In them I see myself again

And know I’m not alone.

The poem ends with an inscription bearing Grandma’s full name and the following:

MARRIED 1939

WIDOWED 1969

I would humbly add “REUNITED 2010”.

Thank you for your art, Grandma.

Class dismissed.