Things are often as they seem

To the uniformed the idea that getting out of the place-of-humiliation (home) might seem harsh, or at least a little like whining.

What kid doesn't think that of home?

I never realized how many didn't until I left and found things different.

I had mentioned my mother hated me. That seems extreme. I can confidently say she at least didn't like me at all. Hate might be more of an investment of emotion she would make in me. I was the blame for everything in her life that went wrong. I could tell. If I walked int he house after school I could normally expect to be slapped in the face for something, usually something dredged up to justify her need to slap SOMETHING. I have a durable face, good for slapping.

If things were not that bad, I could at least expect to generate a strong-language rebuke for something. I was usually just a "little a***ole", "never-any-good", or, if a response had been requested from me a "bawn-liah" (she had a pronounced New England accent with an "r" shortage.

By the time I was about 13, I realized that this would be the status quo until I could do something about it... like leave.

What was it about her?

The thing is, she was devoted as a grandmother. I don't think I ever knew the pain that, as a grownup now, must have existed in her. After all, her husband left for the war, came back, built a company, a house for her, then left with his secretary for parts unknown. I never heard her complain about that once.

I don't know if she ever knew how I REALLY felt about things at home. If she did, she never let on. Fact is, my mother hated me. Trouble is, my mother was her daughter.

Nana made things fun.

Her house was in a big field that had grass growing all around. It was the top of a hill (hence it's ultimate fate), and all around was abandoned stuff I loved to climb on and imagine on and hide on. She never said I couldn't. I wasn't used to that kind of freedom.

It was free at Nana's house.

She made a big deal out of eating at the Newberry's lunch counter. I could get an egg salad sandwich...that came with a pickle and chips...and a big glass of lemonade. She never told me what I couldn't have, she'd only ask me what I wanted.

Wow.

How she got there.

She hadn't driven, as far as I knew, ever. She used the bus to get back and forth to town. When we visited in the summer (a welcome break from the humiliation capitol - home) she would make a big deal out of us getting on the bus to town. Then it seemed like it was the longest ride ever. But actually, it was only a few miles.

Anyway, when we moved to the south my father gave her the old car he had gotten from his mother and father. It was a good old Plymouth - must've gotten a whole 9 miles to the gallon. She got her driver's license.

I think the other thing that made her get adventurous was moving to a new house. The house her husband built after World War II was selected by the people-who-make-such-decisions to be made into an on-ramp for the new interstate going through the town. She fought them and lost (majority rules) and bought another place on the other side of town. I think maybe the bus didn't go there.

So, as it was, she was driving. Actually, she drove for only a few days as I remember.

While my parents were at the funeral we got a letter from Nana that apparently had been posted a day or so before she died. She talked about driving, even signed it "Daredevil".

Then Nana died.

Below the Line.

It was different down south.

There when I came home I was a little puzzled. I loved babysitting for the neighbors. There were a number of benefits. The first and greatest was I could eat anything I wanted. Second, I wasn't at my house. Even alone there was more dignity.

They got home early. I didn't understand. They just said "C'mon". I did.

Ushered into the muffled house there was a heavy spirit. "Get upstairs." I did.

My sister's door was ajar. She was blubbering. "What's wrong?" "Nana died."

The end of the middle

It really was a tragic end.

She left the road slowly, crunching gravel from the shoulder counting out the remaining seconds of her life. She put the 59 Plymouth in park.

Her shoulders sagged and she sighed.

Her last.

Nana died.