Ghost Stories

My grandmother's home was filled with ghosts. She had sand dollars that never stopped producing sand even after years on display. She had a statue of Saint Francis that shattered during an earthquake. Only Saint Francis was harmed. The animals remained intact. Ever protected by their loving guardian, even in white porcelain form. She heard lions roaring inside The Colosseum. She once smelled her grandfather's pipe tobacco in the dark hallway of a museum when walking alone.

She read palms at parties, but, one day after seeing the faded lines of a stranger's hand, she refused to proceed. She never agreed to serve as the palm reader at a function again. She didn't have to say more than, "Sometimes, there is too much darkness."

She had a set of Tarot cards that smelled of cedar. I would often look at the pictures on the cards. Fascinated by the colors. Fascinated with my young, tingling thoughts of beautiful pictures holding knowledge of a life not yet lived.

Right before her death, she called and asked to spend some time in our home with her great-grandchildren. She spent the day telling us stories, holding the children on her knee. She was creating memories. Not the memories of our childhood. She wanted them to be based in our adult present. Less of the childhood ghosts and more of our small children on her lap. That day, she gave me the Tarot cards. In a small, plastic Ziploc bag; still smelling of cedar.

When I am at a crossroads, I pull them off of the shelf where they sit tucked behind board games. I hold them in my hands and think of her. I stare at my palms searching for secrets. I count the cards wondering if I sit still enough, and for long enough, maybe I will find the scent of  my own grandfather's pipe tobacco.

I wait to hear the roars of lions while surrounded by the roars of children. I have none of her foresight. I can not see what may be.

But, she is here. In the strangest of times, I will smell the lilac in candles or on the rag of a mother cleaning her counters and think of her. When my daughter is painting, I see a look on her face that is so much my grandmother that it leaves me breathless. In her paintings hanging on my walls, I drink in the colors deeply, wondering how much of her is in the brushstrokes, peering over the breakfast table, watching the children eat scrambled eggs.

My grandmother's mother was a bird lover. My mother swears that when each of us was born, a beautiful, rare bird would come to visit the babies. Once, a crane. Once, a cardinal that inspected my sister with such care that my mother wept.

When we moved to Vermont, a blue jay came to my windowsill and stared in to our kitchen. For what seemed like a lifetime, I stood silent. Staring. Waiting for one of us to flinch. After watching my frozen body at the sink and inspecting the children with head tilted, the blue jay flew away. To this day, I wonder. Bouncing between acknowledging the ludicrous idea and wanting so desperately to embrace it as truth.

The magic in our ghosts. The ones that reside in only our memories. The ones that reside in stories, making them real. Tangible.

I tell these stories looking for belief. I've heard more often than not, "I don't believe in ghosts."  I'm not sure if I do either, but, I believe in telling ghost stories.

I tell them softly and often because when I do, lilac becomes my grandmother. Beautiful birds, my great-grandmother. Pipe tobacco, the smell of a loving father and grandfather. Tarot cards, the mark of a great decision. Stories, the memory of our ghosts.

Ada With Strawberries

I am in love with my grandmother. In awe. Enraptured. I want to exaggerate the pieces of genetics she's graciously handed down. I relish them, but, sadly, I am no Ada. The world will only ever have one.  My grandmother dislikes excess. Her parents, in a psychic show of support, never gave her a middle name. When asked about this, she says, "What do I need with a middle name? We were poor. Poor people didn't have middle names. Did they?" When I tell her that almost everyone has a middle name, she shrugs and says, "Who needs it? Not me. I got by without one." Truth: My middle name has never once picked up a check or bailed me out of jail. Grandma, you're right. As usual.

Ada was always the proud master of her home. Or yours. She will walk into anyone's kitchen and rearrange it, and, I don't mean with her stares. She will literally rearrange your kitchen. You're a professional chef? She's not impressed. You're doing it wrong. Make yourself at home in your own home while she spends most of three seasons of any syndicated television series telling you exactly what you're doing wrong, demonstrating by physically moving your dishwasher to the opposite side of your galley kitchen. Just grab a beer, sit down and relax. Turn the chair somewhat in her direction and maintain moderate to negligent eye contact. In 4 - 5 hours, you will not know where anything in your house is. Let me help you, the batteries are in the butter drawer. Why? "They LAST longer there. Didn't you KNOW that?" No, Grandma. I didn't.

She will talk to anyone. Forever. If you have a meeting to get to across town, I will pray that you don't run into her, while simultaneously hoping that you do run into Ada on the way. The grandma vortex is strong. Fourteen hours later, you're found holding a suspiciously delicious egg salad sandwich in your newly rearranged kitchen.

She calls every male who touches produce, "Young man!" and, she insists that your local market is
storing the freshest produce in a secret location. Yes. Somewhere in your very own store, there is a separate produce section marked with red carpet entry and a bouncer a la Fruit of the Loom. Telling her this isn't so yields no passivity. Congratulations, you've just thrown fresh chum into shark infested waters. Repress any attempts to tell her that the, "young man!" found unloading oranges is a college student on Spring Break. To her, he is King Tropicana, Ruler of Florida's prestigious orange groves and her ticket to the VIP produce section. Five minutes later, she's invited him to date one of her eligible granddaughters. "Orange Groves are a lovely place to get married!"

Ada cuts the excess plastic off of her bread bag. You should try it. You won't be disappointed OR, maybe you will be. You'll never know until you try. When I ask her why she does this, she says, "The plastic takes up too much space in my refrigerator. Look at how much room I have now!" * points proudly to shelf with no visible space.* It's hard to argue with completely fabricated fact. Spoiler alert: *whispers* It doesn't save space, it just LOOKS better. Don't tell her I said that as I, long ago, drank the kool-aid and religiously do the same.

When we told her the name of our fourth child, she cried, "WHAT? I was JUST getting over the the last name. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?"

When we told her our trees would have to be removed after Tropical Storm Irene, she sighed the world's largest weight off shoulders sigh,  "Oh GOOD. I'm so happy you thought of it. I was wondering if you would be out there one day and those damn trees would fall right on the children!"

When I told her that her non-Catholic granddaughter was sending her great-grandchildren to Catholic School, she sat silent for a few moments and then said, "Well, those Catholics are crazy, but, they sure have good schools." Ahem, agreed.

When we told her we were moving across the country, she said, "I love you. You do what you have to do for your family."

My grandmother is honest. If you are an asshole, she will tell you. You will just have to sit pretty with the knowledge that you are, indeed, an asshole because Ada NEVER lies. Ada's scepter of truth is always blinking; guiding all of her assholes home.

My childhood was sordid, difficult and tumultuous. Grandma Ada was home in a sea of houses. The home that was safe. The home where good food, warm blankets and love were always offered. Where you were unconditionally loved, despite your selfish tendencies. Where advice was given whether you asked for it or felt you needed it. But, rest assured, when she gives it, you need it.

Ada was the youngest of 10 children. She has told me that she believes her mother was not really meant to be a mother. She has said, so matter of factly, that those were just the times they lived in. You had children in the middle of great poverty or personal depression. She remembers being dirty. She will coolly tell you that her mother didn't care for her.  She tells these stories with the greatest strength. That strength breaks my heart.

Everything she owns, she earned. Everything she says, she means. Every child she watched grow, she loves.

Every good and truly selfless thing I've done, I learned by watching her. Here is to Ada No Middle Name, storer of cold batteries, severed bread bags and bearer of the undying love of a thousand mothers despite her failure to find even an ounce of it in the mother she was given. To the woman who tells us when we're assholes and loves us right through it.

I love you too.

My Grandmother. "Ada With Strawberries" by artist Susan Brabeau