My Gammie was my favorite person on earth. She was the only grandparent that lived in town and I was the only grandchild she had who lived in town. Partly because of the divorce and custody battles, but mostly because she was just fantastic, I considered her my rock. Beyond that though, she really was more like a mother to me, as I was a son to her. As she got older, when she would start rattling off names of her children, I'd be in there ("Bill! No. Pat! No. Ajax! Whoever you are! Bring me a glass of water!")
Gammie was an Army brat, born to an artillery colonel with roots in Texas. Though she moved around as a child, she was always raised to be a proper Southern lady. At the same time, because she grew up around the Army, she could be tough as nails.
Artillerymen used to be avid equestrians. Prior to World War Two, the cannons were all pulled by horses and mules. One day, as a girl, her father, the colonel (though I'm not certain of his rank at the time of the story) took her riding on post. She was thrown and her arms were badly skinned. Before she had a chance to wail, a superior officer rode up and tersely commanded her to get up and back on the horse. She looked at her father and he nodded at her (unable to countermand the man, though apparently Great Grandaddy was not very pleased by the officer's intrusion). She complied and pulled herself up, as ordered, the blood running down her arms.
The superior officer smiled and barked, "A girl getting back on her horse! That's what I like to see!" Then he rode off.
That was Patton.
She married my grandfather when she was 19. He was 29. As he rose up the ranks, she did too, in her own way. Though unofficial, military wives partially carry their husbands' ranks. They are expected to police the community. When the soldiers are away, the commander's wife leads the Family Readiness Group. She insures all the families are taken care of in the absence of their husbands/fathers.
My grandfather was a brigadier general. If you think someone lower-ranking was not going to treat her seriously, just because she was not in the Army, you are dead, damn wrong. If somebody told the general's wife "no," they'd better have had a fantastic reason. She was appropriately polite and demure, but, having raised a family of four children while her husband was off at two wars, she had an adamantine will.
What with moving around so much, I considered her house home. Gammie was a large woman and that finally caught up to her my senior year of high school. She'd had a heart episode so she and the family decided she couldn't live on her own anymore (at that point she was also on bionic knees). The retirement home where all of her friends were didn't have an opening at that time. So, Gammie came to stay with us.
I had been in classes for the grade ahead of me the entire time in HS. Therefore, nearly all of my friends graduated the year before. In fact, I could have graduated as well, but a) I wasn't giving up my final season of baseball and b) why rush to responsibility? Far from cramping my style, I thought my grandmother living with us was great.
When she first came down, while we still weren't sure about her heart, I stayed in the same room with her. What with her replaced knees and her size, she had very poor circulation in her legs. I would rub her legs and feet with salve and put on her compression stockings. I would help lift her legs up on to the ottoman when she sat and on to the bed when she was ready to go to sleep. I adored that woman.
I can sleep through a hurricane, but I would wake up if her breathing changed.
One night, I heard her feebly calling out for me from the bathroom. I jumped up and rushed to her. My eyes were greeted to the sight of...well...
She'd had an "accident." It was the middle of the night and I suppose her stomach was upset and she...she...she...didn't quite make it.
I was horrified. Not because of the mess, but because I could tell she was mortified. I did my best to make it seem that there was nothing unusual. I got her cleaned up and put back to bed. I scoured the bathroom. I went back to bed.
I laid down in my bed, facing hers. She was facing me. She had not gone back to sleep. She was looking at me with glassy eyes and didn't say a word. As I looked back at her, tears welled in mine.
"Ajax," she said softly.
"Yes, Gammie," I replied, tenderly.
"You know what they say..."
"What's that, Gammie?"
"Shit happens."
That was the only time in my life I ever heard my grandmother cuss.
I adored that woman.
Gammie was an Army brat, born to an artillery colonel with roots in Texas. Though she moved around as a child, she was always raised to be a proper Southern lady. At the same time, because she grew up around the Army, she could be tough as nails.
Artillerymen used to be avid equestrians. Prior to World War Two, the cannons were all pulled by horses and mules. One day, as a girl, her father, the colonel (though I'm not certain of his rank at the time of the story) took her riding on post. She was thrown and her arms were badly skinned. Before she had a chance to wail, a superior officer rode up and tersely commanded her to get up and back on the horse. She looked at her father and he nodded at her (unable to countermand the man, though apparently Great Grandaddy was not very pleased by the officer's intrusion). She complied and pulled herself up, as ordered, the blood running down her arms.
The superior officer smiled and barked, "A girl getting back on her horse! That's what I like to see!" Then he rode off.
That was Patton.
She married my grandfather when she was 19. He was 29. As he rose up the ranks, she did too, in her own way. Though unofficial, military wives partially carry their husbands' ranks. They are expected to police the community. When the soldiers are away, the commander's wife leads the Family Readiness Group. She insures all the families are taken care of in the absence of their husbands/fathers.
My grandfather was a brigadier general. If you think someone lower-ranking was not going to treat her seriously, just because she was not in the Army, you are dead, damn wrong. If somebody told the general's wife "no," they'd better have had a fantastic reason. She was appropriately polite and demure, but, having raised a family of four children while her husband was off at two wars, she had an adamantine will.
What with moving around so much, I considered her house home. Gammie was a large woman and that finally caught up to her my senior year of high school. She'd had a heart episode so she and the family decided she couldn't live on her own anymore (at that point she was also on bionic knees). The retirement home where all of her friends were didn't have an opening at that time. So, Gammie came to stay with us.
I had been in classes for the grade ahead of me the entire time in HS. Therefore, nearly all of my friends graduated the year before. In fact, I could have graduated as well, but a) I wasn't giving up my final season of baseball and b) why rush to responsibility? Far from cramping my style, I thought my grandmother living with us was great.
When she first came down, while we still weren't sure about her heart, I stayed in the same room with her. What with her replaced knees and her size, she had very poor circulation in her legs. I would rub her legs and feet with salve and put on her compression stockings. I would help lift her legs up on to the ottoman when she sat and on to the bed when she was ready to go to sleep. I adored that woman.
I can sleep through a hurricane, but I would wake up if her breathing changed.
One night, I heard her feebly calling out for me from the bathroom. I jumped up and rushed to her. My eyes were greeted to the sight of...well...
She'd had an "accident." It was the middle of the night and I suppose her stomach was upset and she...she...she...didn't quite make it.
I was horrified. Not because of the mess, but because I could tell she was mortified. I did my best to make it seem that there was nothing unusual. I got her cleaned up and put back to bed. I scoured the bathroom. I went back to bed.
I laid down in my bed, facing hers. She was facing me. She had not gone back to sleep. She was looking at me with glassy eyes and didn't say a word. As I looked back at her, tears welled in mine.
"Ajax," she said softly.
"Yes, Gammie," I replied, tenderly.
"You know what they say..."
"What's that, Gammie?"
"Shit happens."
That was the only time in my life I ever heard my grandmother cuss.
I adored that woman.
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