I had, what I guess you would call, an unconventional upbringing. For 1969, that is. My mother and father were divorced while my mother was pregnant with me. I never met my father, at least in life. The first time I ever had contact with him was at his funeral. But that's for another post. My grandparents owned two homes on the same piece of land. They lived in the front house where my grandfather operated his barbershop. My mother, brother, and I lived in the back house.
My mom worked for General Motors and worked the swing and midnight shifts at one point. Little by little, my brother and I began migrating to my grandparents' house out of convenience, and they became, for all intents and purposes, our parents. My grandmother was the most loving, selfless, hardworking woman I have ever known. Her mother died when she was 3 years old, and she spent some time in an orphanage. Once her father remarried, he was able to bring her and her brothers and sisters home. Unfortunately, her stepmother passed away after a few years, and she had to quit school in the 5th grade to care for her siblings.
She cared about the people she loved. When I was little, she would hug me and squeeze me tight and say, "I love you so much I don't know what to do about it." I don't know if there are actually words to express how that made me feel, but I still think about it today. If she knew you liked a certain food or dessert, and you were coming over, guess what we were having for dinner? You know how they used to say if you were sick, you should feed a fever and starve a cold. Not in her book- she fed both. She made the best French Toast in the world. I am not kidding. If I went to Wikipedia right now and typed in French Toast, there would be a photo of her wearing a beret, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, holding a plate of you guessed it, French Toast. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a smidge, but it was absolutely good. For years, I wondered what she did to it to make it so fantastic. I mean, it's bread dipped in egg for crying out loud. Years later, I realized what made it so delicious. She fried it in a pan lightly coated with olive oil. You're welcome.
My Grandfather was just as hardworking and loving as my Grandmother. He was also one of the most unintentionally funny people I've ever met. He never swore. If he didn't like a person, he would simply refer to them as a dirty skunk. No insults, no curse words; if he said you were a dirty skunk, you knew you were pretty much dead to him. He was a huge proponent of duct tape as a one-stop shop for fixing anything. Broken leg? Slap some duct tape on it. The door won't stay closed? Put some duct tape on it. If he didn't like a certain food, he would say that it tasted "Like the sidewalk". You can imagine my teenage mind racing at that proclamation. I had soooo many questions. Grandpa, who served you the sidewalk? Was there anything on it? Did it come with any sides? Why was I never offered any sidewalk to try?
I often think of what my life would have been like if my grandparents had not stepped up and stood in the gap for my brother and me. My father was a non-entity in our lives, and my mother worked a lot. She had a lot of trauma from her relationship with my father. I will forever miss them, but what a great example they were to me. I think I'm pretty funny, but I work at it. I think I'm pretty loving, but I work at it. It just came naturally to them, being the loving,caring people they were.My grandparents' generation knew what was important and what wasn't. May they rest in peace until we meet again ♥️.