My Grandmother was a Dour Woman

    Wow, I have labored over this story and learned a few things along the way. When I first unwrapped these three pictures, I immediately knew the first line of my story and the last line.   I was interested how I would bridge the two sentences.

    I must make it clear that I do not know any of these types of personalities. I’m not certain where they came from, but I have not modeled the people in the story after anyone I have known. The first picture is of the Grandmother, the second is the Father and the third is a childhood photo of the “author.” I do know her real name because it is written on the bottom of the photograph-- Eunice Carpenter.

    Although this is a piece of fiction that my muse has fed to me in bits and pieces over the past few days, there is something that I find very peculiar: I did, several years ago, experience the poignant moment at the end of the story. I wonder if it’s appropriate to speak of it in a work of fiction. I was surprised that it would surface here. Someday I will write about the real woman with whom this scenario played out—my remarkable mother-in-law. 

When you serve someone, you often come to love them. It is a precious gift, truly.

    

My Grandmother was a Dour Woman

      My Grandmother was a dour woman. Dour and prim and stiff-necked. I do not remember ever seeing her smile or cry or even flinch—physically or emotionally. She had a permanent set-in-stone countenance that embodied both sophistication and strength. It was always my impression that people held her in high esteem for her refined manner, while at the same time feeling intimidated by a prevailing air of power and rigidity of disposition.

       Grandmother had enough money to keep her comfortable, but she was not wealthy by the standards of Chicago’s High Society. Nevertheless, she carried herself regally and acted the part of a Grande Dame. The fact that she had inherited a rather large, imposing house when her parents passed away provided further credence to the impression of affluence.

      Although we lived only five houses down the street from Grandmother, our house was not remarkable. Because we lived so close, I could visit Grandmother by myself even at a young age. That is, I could visit when invited; I did not see my Grandmother often.

      My mother died when I was born on May 27, 1887. My mother’s sister, Aunt Harriet, who also lived nearby, helped my Father care for me. She was a good enough person but had three young children of her own who kept her very busy. Her husband, William, never seemed able to provide more than the bare necessities, and my early impression of the Linton household was one of frustration and hard work with an underlying foundation of goodness. Aunt Harriet met the daily tedious challenges that inevitably come with never having enough: time, resources and, perhaps, love. Uncle William was forever on the periphery. He put one foot in front of the other, but there were never any forward-moving leaps or passionate spring in his steps. I will always have an appreciation for this family. They cared for me the best they could. Grandmother made her hushed tsk tsk at the mention of Harriet or her family. That hurt me.

      When I was two years old, my Grandfather died of a sudden heart attack. Grandmother rarely spoke of him, but when she did, she subtly implied that he had been inconsiderate to leave her a widow. On other occasions, not wanting to appear overly sentimental over his loss, she would hastily add that it may have been for the best. “He was, after all, a rather sickly man, and I am doing quite well in spite of the inconveniences he has caused me by his leaving.”

      I was told that it was my Grandfather who had added some warmth and cheer to their imposing house, bringing in, little by little, copies of bright masterpieces for the walls and flowered wallpaper for several of the rooms. After his death, it was my Grandmother who had shrouded everything that was bright or breathtaking or hopeful. There was no need for her to remove the wall coverings or veil the paintings; she brought with her a gloomy ambiance, effectively suppressing anything bright. I wish I had known my Grandfather. Perhaps that would have made all the difference.

       While visiting my Grandmother on my seventh birthday, she mentioned that I was born on a very dreary day. This led me to ask her what my mother was like. She looked through me as she began a perfunctory listing of Mother’s shortcomings and concluded her monotone remarks by summarizing her observations, “She wasn’t strong, I suppose. She died very young, after all. And I can’t imagine what she was thinking, leaving her infant to fend for herself, bereft of a mother.”

      “But how did she die? Father does not like to talk about her; I don’t know anything about her, but still, I miss her.”

      Grandmother signaled the winding down of our very brief exchange by ringing for her housekeeper to show me out. As Erma helped me on with my coat, Grandmother added an afterthought, “You can’t possibly be missing her. You never knew her; you were only a newborn when you killed her.”

      I did not talk of my mother after that.

     Even as a child, I had a growing awareness of how Father’s mother had largely shaped his character and depleted his spirit. Grandmother never raised her voice, but very often when she addressed my Father, her tone was somehow both sharp and demoralizing. “Walter.”

      She had a way of making each letter in his name stand stiffly at attention and crowd close together seeking refuge. I suppose my Father could be considered a weak man, but as I matured, I came to understand that any strength my Father might have come to develop in maturity had been systematically undermined since childhood. It must have been obvious to him that, in his Mother’s estimation, he was never quite enough. Perhaps his own father’s spirit had also been conquered, and he could not prevent the damage to his son, or perhaps his father did not sense that his son’s spirit was being diminished on a daily basis.  

      It is clear that Grandmother did not approve of my mother. I am certain that Father’s decision to marry was made in spite of an onslaught of venomous disapproval from his mother. Perhaps my mother had lent him some of her strength to make it happen.

     I was aware of other decisions my father made that did not please my Grandmother. In fact, quite possibly, nothing my Father did was ever acceptable. One evening as I was on my way down the stairs to get a drink of water, I could hear Grandmother and Father talking in the drawing room. I sat on the stairs to listen in, and even though my Grandmother’s voice was hushed and steely calm, I could sense underpinnings of imposed authority in every carefully constructed word.

     “Walter.” She proceeded to address him with words so frigid they became brittle icy shards that injured in a thousand different ways, the countless toxic wounds left to fester into sepsis of the soul. “I know of your dinner last night with that woman. This is not the first time. What are you thinking to get yourself entangled in such a liaison!”

    My Father began to murmur something when he was harshly silenced.

    “That was not a question, Walter. Not a question at all. You obviously were not thinking. What are your intentions? Must you flaunt your indiscretions in public forums like a common rogue?  You dishonor your wife’s name and shame the child. You . . .”

     “Mother, Edna has been gone for eight years, and Eunice has been motherless long enough. Mother, she likes Claire.”

     “What! You have exposed the child to this woman, this sordid affair! I cannot believe this. Your must stop this reprehensible behavior at once; I raised you to maintain proper conduct at all times. It appears you have turned aside your lessons, and now you have brought shame upon our family.”

     “I assure you, my actions have been upright, and my intentions are honorable. I may ask Claire to marry me.”

     “Walter, that will not happen.”

      Grandmother stopped abruptly, and I could hear her walking toward the staircase where I crouched. I escaped up the stairs with silent footsteps, driven by an unnamed dread.

       I never saw Claire again.

      Father’s vitality was mined and laid barren with every concession he made, and he made many. Giving up Claire eroded his foundation, but I recognized precisely the moment his decline became terminal, when I knew, and he knew, he would never recover. It happened the year after he changed careers. He had been successful as a bookkeeper for a large company in downtown Chicago. But the business world was changing, and he was changing. He had always wanted to own a little shop on the outskirts of the city and had saved for years to make that dream happen. Establishing a new business, even a small business, is difficult at best. For my Father to attempt such an undertaking was unimaginably heroic.  He had gleaned some remaining courage, and although his plan was sound, and his work ethic faultless, within a year things went wrong. It was then he had to do the unthinkable. It was then he had to ask his mother for a loan. I saw her hand the envelope to him. I cannot forget the scorn on her face and the defeat on his. I have heard that when one is about to die, the world moves slowly, and so it was with my Father. He managed to shuffle through life for two and a half years after this incident. He continued to exist on some level, but in truth, it was in that moment that I lost him.

       Looking back now, I’m convinced that my Grandmother arranged for me to see the incident. It was orchestrated so I would know, assuredly, of my Father’s folly. 

      When my Father was finally laid to rest, I was left with the house and no immediate opportunities for matrimony. It was not possible to live on the little money that I inherited. Aunt Harriet would have taken me in, but I could see the walls of her house still bulging and her health waning with the growth of her family. Grandmother had enough income to supplement my inheritance, but I could not consider reliving my Father’s ruin as he reached for that envelope. It was simply necessary that I find employment, and I soon became a teacher. As was expected, Grandmother sat stone-faced as I told her the news. I had disgraced the Carpenter name as surely as if I had committed a heinous crime. But it was no more difficult to tell her this news than any other. Everything about me was always objectionable.

      My first year of teaching left me exhausted and feeling hopeless. I was not prepared for the working conditions, the long hours, the unrealistic expectations, and most of all, the nearly sadistic treatment at the hands of the headmaster. I was trapped between an unbearable situation and an unthinkable decision to ask Grandmother for help.

      I persevered and the next year secured a position in another part of the city. The hours were still long and resources in short supply, but oh what a change from my previous post. My colleagues were pleasant and the headmaster, although exacting, was reasonable and civil. 

      During my third year of teaching, Grandmother’s health began to wane. It was such a gradual decline that no one recognized it in the beginning. Erma remained her loyal housekeeper, and began doing more and more for Grandmother. However, Erma was aging, too, and it became evident that Grandmother would need additional help. I arranged for a home nurse to come three times a week, but because of Grandmother’s sour disposition, it was hard to keep anyone for more than a few weeks at a time. And finally, the time came when Erma's energy was depleted. She reluctantly left Grandmother's service to be cared for by her daughter.

      Doctors recommended a suitable establishment that would care for Grandmother in her remaining months. I toured the facility and knew immediately that Grandmother would not stay there. Even in her weakened condition, she remained strong-willed. She would find a way to escape from what she would consider a prison. Most likely, perhaps in spitefulness, she would die alone on the unforgiving streets of Chicago.

      By this time, school was over for a summer recess. I began helping Grandmother nearly full time, staying with her during the day and hiring a nurse at night. Soon, I moved in with her and became enveloped in the dreary darkness that resided there. Hanging over her house was a canopy shielding against any brightness.  

      After a few weeks, at my insistence, I moved Grandmother into my home, and there we settled into a routine: waking, washing Grandmother, tending to my own hygiene, feeding, eating, administering medication and attending to household chores. Two days a week I would hurry out to purchase whatever necessities we might need while a nurse sat with her. Over the years I had worked hard to make my home comfortable and bright, and I stood firm against any of Grandmother’s attempt at drawing the drapes or dimming the lights.

      Money quickly became a concern, and I had to approach Grandmother with the suggestion that we consider selling her home. Living together in my home cost considerably less than the upkeep of her house. I had promised myself never to ask Grandmother for anything, but this was not really for me, but rather to save her from spending the last of her life in an institution filled with strangers.

      As we sat warming by the fire one evening, I cleared my throat and began, “Grandmother, I cannot work and take care of you at the same time. I am running out of money to feed us and keep up this house. You need a nurse to look in on you more and more often. I do not know. . . “

       “Sell the wretched thing. Help me look through it for a keepsake or two, and then sell it. Don’t trouble me about these matters again.”

      We quickly sold the house, the home she and her husband and her parents before them had always lived in. Despite my unhappy memories there, I did not revel in its passing and appreciated its contribution to solving our dilemma.

      It wasn’t long before the Grande Dame could no longer hold down food. I would get anything she asked for. I peeled, chopped, mashed, and strained; her body rejected it all. I wiped her forehead, brushed her hair, cleaned her undergarments, freshened her gown and changed her bedding. I held a cup to her lips as she drank. I gently stroked her hands while she stared blankly at the ceiling for long periods of time. She rarely spoke now, but would occasionally revive and ask again to try eating something, an apple, perhaps---peeled, and sliced ever so thin. But she lived on water, and her body begin to shrink and whither.

      And then came the day she could no longer raise her head to drink. This was unbearable for me. With inspiration, I found some straws in the cupboard. As I put the straw into the water, I covered the other end with my finger. I removed the straw and gently guided it through Grandmother’s parched lips. When I released my finger from the end of the straw, the water trickled into her dry mouth. Calling upon the last fragments of  her determination, she struggled to swallow each precious drop.

     As I sat beside her, giving her these last droplets, she looked up at me, astonished, her eyes widening in great surprise at the tear making its way down my cheek.