Living with Grandma Honey
The Background
I recently
moved from my old home, in Cape Cod, MA, across country to Southern
California where I will live with my grandmother for the duration of a
gap year before entering college. For my gap year I got a job working
at the West Coast Repository at Scripps Institute, with the hope of
getting out on a marine science vessel to experience life as a marine
technician. Anyways, the most reasonable place to stay in California
was in Fallbrook with my Grandma Honey and her new hubby, "The Colonel". This, however, meant an entirely new way of life
for me, because, I found, that dealing with these particular retired elderly was some what
troublesome. That is how the story began: Me, a teen-thing, in an
environment that was caught up in a Depression-era attitude, adjusting to the lifestyle of
people who have far too much time on their hands and too little to do.
After about a month and a half, the jury was still out.
The Notes
I
lived at the house for about a month without any sort of complaint and
I thought I had been a rather good guest. I left quietly in the morning
and locked the door behind me, I cleaned my dishes and ate with my
hosts whenever they felt the urge to have dinner at the living room
table, I kept my bathroom and room in order, I did my laundry and I was
always friendly and entertaining whenever any of their friends visited.
It seemed, however, that my life was a lie.
It all began on that
fateful night in July when, coming home from a hard day's work and
surf, I was confronted with a note on the front door, which was
obviously addressed to me, and a small pile of trash. Leaning my
surfboard up against the wall, I grabbed the note and brought it close
to my face in order to decipher the oldtimer's scrawl in the
dim light: "Dylan, please take out trash." Curious. It was not curious
that the grandparents were asking me to take the trash down to the
dump, just that they found that 9 at night was the optimal time to do
it. Shrugging, I loaded up the golf cart with the
trash on the doorstep and zipped down to the dump to unload it. I got
back to the door and carefully folded the note down the middle as a
sign of completion, before walking in through the door and reporting
that I had taken the trash down to the dump. I was met only with looks
of puzzlement. It appeared that they had meant for me to only bring the
trash from the doorstep to the garage...10 feet away. I suppose that my
mistake came from the fact that the trash was already outside when I
saw the note and therefore the only way to get the trash more "out" was
to take it out of our lives. Hence, I went to the dump. Anyways, after
looking at myself in chagrin, I continued to my room and the bathroom
where I found more notes: "Dylan, bathroom sink, toilet, and mirror
need to be cleaned." "Dylan, room must be picked up every morning." I
shrugged, incorporated this information into my being, making the
slight changes that the, "bathroom needs to be cleaned AGAIN" and "room
must be picked up MORE," in order to satisfy my own self-esteem and
went into my room to sleep.
The Calm Before The Storm
A
week passed and everything felt good. I came home to no more notes on
the doors and I had no complaints from my hosts. So, I began to feel
that this might be it. They might be satisfied with this level of
around-the-house helpfulness and general good manners. How wrong I was.
I cannot fault myself for being so fooled, because, though they seem
plain and simple, these old people are a bunch of fickle fiends who
hide all emotions from you (except of course absolute pure love and joy
that you're with them) until they come out and totally surprise you
with an admonishment. Sort of like someone nice telling you that you
have bad teeth. You just stumble back a bit and catch your breath
before saying in a low tone, "Really? Hmm..." Well my wake-up call came
when I got done surfing really late and when I called Grandma Honey she
informed me that she was, "deeply and utterly worried about me," and
that she, "loved me and wasn't mad," but that she was, "completely and
totally worried about me." This row of comments was more troubling than
anything, I mean ANYTHING my mother or father said to me during my
childhood. This must have been because back home I knew that no matter
how much bad shit I did, my mom would never throw me out, my dad might
try, but my mom would never throw me out. My Grandmother and El
Coronel, however, were a different story. I was fairly sure that I
would have to do quite a lot before they said, "Okay, that's enough
kid, take your needles and GO!" but they kept themselves on such
boundaries that I was never able to be sure about that. So,
I apologized my little heart away, promised to call her whenever I went
surfing and so on and so forth, hung up the phone and sped home and
quick as my stationwagon would go a'trundling.
When I got home,
I peeked into the house through a crack in the front door to check that
the coast was clear (because she said she'd probably be asleep when I
got home) and as I was walking to the kitchen to make myself something
to eat, I heard, "Dylan? Is that you?" from the master bedroom.
Instantly the words rush to my head, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It won't
happen again," as I calmly and politely say hello and goodnight to her.
She reminded me that I should go to bed soon (it was 8:30 at the time)
and then left me in peace, so I thought. As I wandered into the kitchen
I saw it, laid out like a murder scene, the paper...EVERYWHERE! The
notes had returned! I looked around and didn't know where to start,
finally I just chose the one closest to the entrance and begin reading
around the kitchen. Flashes of kindergarten returned to me as the notes described and related
objects to events and words. I learned what a "serving and preparing
counter" was, what the rules were about "Grandma's Glass, what the use
of a dish-rack and dishwasher were, and finally, "This is a sponge. It
is used in soapy, warm water to wash dishes and should be rinsed out
and dried thoroughly after each use." I got my digital camera and took
a picture of the area with the highest note-concentration and looked at it a few times to make sure it
was real. I freaked out a bit and after cooling off I went back and
reviewed each not again. As I looked at each on I tried to seriously
consider all possible angles from which the notes could be viewed and
then based my final definition on them. I updated my manner handbook
once more and then folded each note delicately down the middle before
disposing of them in the trash. I prepared some food on the "preparing
counter", wiped it down with a sponge and went off to bed.
Apocalypse Now
I
got up in the morning and started on my 48 mile journey to work at
4:15 A.M. to avoid the traffic (both human and automotive) and this
particular morning went just fine. I picked up my room, left all 40
square inches of empty space around the sink free of all the bathroom
tools I use every morning, and cleaned all the dirty dishes I produced
as I made my breakfast. I left for work, satisfied, and for most of the
day, all was silent.
Now, the sediment cores (meter and a half
long section of ocean floor drilled by the ODP
over the past 40 years) that I worked with down at the West Coast
Repository were required to be refrigerated, because mold would thrive
otherwise (rather than simply appear in large patches every few cores).
So the core repository has six 50-foot long and 15-foot wide reefers in
which there is absolutely no cellphone signal (the walls are made of
two pieces of quarter inch steel or aluminum), which means that every
time you emerge from this icy domain you grab for your hip-attached
cellphone to see if any adoring fans might,
unfortunately, have called just when you were out of reach. Usually
these small moments of inexplicable glee were followed by a small sigh
and the sad click of phone locking back into it's holster. But on this
particular day there was no sigh, there was no click, just a little
breath and a smile because, I had a message! I flipped open my nifty
Motorola Razr phone with the wrist flick I've practiced so many
times, clicked the call button and put the phone to my ear.
"You
have one unheard message...First unheard message: 'Hi Honey, it's your
grandma...I was just calling to tell you that I'd like you home at a
reasonable time tonight, because we have something to talk about which
can't really be discussed over the phone. So, please be home by around
4, okay? Okay. Love you honey, bye bye."
Fear.
From
long years of experience dealing with children and grandchildren,
Grandma Honey had learned how hit the perfect combination of enigmatic
yet direct and potent comments that sends minds racing. She started
with the clear demand for me to be home at a reasonable time, later
used as a framing device to provide the final structure. Then she
decided to define her reasons for the demand (as though I was going to
simply blow her off). She kept the point of conversation unclear as to
let my imagination run rampant, but made sure that I knew that the
subject matter must be of some importance. The rest of the banter was
just for shits and giggles. I call it the Alfred Hitchcock Method of
child rearing.
So for the rest of the day I kept wondering
about it. The possibilities ran through my head: She was mad that I
didn't have time to empty the dishwasher, that I had left a shirt on
the floor of my room, that I left my toothbrush on the bathroom
counter, or that I had let out her last cat and it had gotten eaten. I
couldn't nail down a specific reason, which just made it worse because
it meant that the range of possibilities was infinite.
The Resurrection
At
about 2 P.M. my work was done. I ate some Top Ramen in the office and then slapped my knees and
announced that I had to get home. I made a beeline for grandma's,
parked, took a deep breath, and walked towards the front door. The
clanging wooden welcome sign on the front door gave away my entrance so
I greeted my grandma to pinpoint her location. She was in the
kitchen...waiting.
"Hi honey, how are you?" She asked me. As I
walked towards the kitchen I told her I was tired, but fine and asked
her how her day was. I was listening to her until I rounded the corner
and saw the kitchen. The notes were back! I heard the Psycho music in
the background and my vision went red. The words, "this is a sponge"
echoed in my brain and I said in a controlled manner, "You put the
notes back out." and smiled.
"Yes," chuckles, "I wanted to talk
to you about them." She placed her hands on the serving counter and
leaned towards me with that "don't be scared little boy" smile on her
face. "This move has been a very big transition for you, as it would be
for anyone, and I realize that it is going to take some getting used
to. You've been here about a month and a half and for the first month I
let you live like you would normally (a.k.a. letting me run blind
across a highway), but now I feel it's necessary to alter your behavior
to fit our lifestyle. You see, we're just two old farts (GH is the
epitome of ladylike manners...usually) who are very set in
our ways and will have to mold you to fit into our customs. Now, first
off, your room needs to be cleaned every day, your bathroom should be
cleaned whenever it's dirty, they should both be vacuumed every
weekend. That area, however, is basically your own space. The kitchen,
however, is special. If everyone who uses the kitchen doesn't follow
the same guidelines then chaos will ensue. You understand, honey? Now,
this is a sponge..."
As I sat there and listened to my grandma
recite the notes she had written and give an explanation to me as to
why she wanted them to happen I couldn't help looking back at how
comedic the exchange of the notes had been, but then it hit me that
most people are delighted with the slightest sign of gratitude from the
people they are hosting. Helping with the dishes, keeping the space
they gave you to live clean each morning, or helping move lots of heavy
objects. Lots. So I sat, put a smile on my face, and listened to my
grandma intently. In the following days I altered my behavior to fit
their needs because I was, after all, living with Grandma Honey.