My Grandmother

My grandmother died when I was eight years old. She was carrying laundry from the back room, through her bedroom into the bathroom. She never made it out of her room. She had a heart attack and collapsed at the foot of the bed she shared with my grandfather, cracking her head open on the cedar chest that sat that for as long as I can remember. My brother found her with the folded towels still clutched to her when they returned home from hunting.

I was at a girl scout meeting. My cousin called and told me the news. I remember, that she was the second person that I knew that had died. She was the first however, that I really cared about because the other person was my sister's father in law and I all I knew about him was that he was a nice man who owned the Keebler plant in our town.

I remember how calm I was when she told me. I don't think that I understood yet what that meant. My sister came to get me and take me home from that meeting. I remember how bad it felt inside when they explained that she was never, ever, coming back.

I cried so hard I thought my chest would explode. In true eight year old fashion, I too my cabbage patch doll, dressed up in the skirt she had made me the Christmas before, and knelt down to pray. I prayed that it was all a mistake. I prayed that God would let her come back to us. I prayed so hard, I even tried to negotiate with God, promising to never be bad again, apologizing for all the bad things I ever did in my life, if only he would let us have her back.

Of course, it was too late. There was no coming back from the dead for her. No mistaken identity. My beautiful, loving grandmother was gone.

Even now, I remember so many things about her. She loved the dutch culture. Her kitchen was all done up with dutch things. She made the best spaghetti in the world. She would put it in the oven and let it bake for hours. The entire house smelled of it. I remember her letting us pick cherries out of the tree that stood outside the kitchen window. I remember that she hated driving on the roads so much that when she picked me up or took me home, we rode in the alleys. I remember how I loved to sit behind her in her rocking chair and brush her hair. The roasting of marshmellows in the fire place. Most of all though, I remember the holidays at my grandparents.

Huge tables lined up in the living room, covered in tons and tons of food. My aunts and uncles all milling around, shooing us kids out of the way. Us kids always trying to stick our fingers into the pies or some other wonderful delight baked just for us.

I remember the love, the happiness, the feeling of belonging to something so huge that it was as if the whole world were there. Of course, to a child that age, my family was nearly the whole world.

I have two uncles and two aunts. They were all married, so, add two more uncles and two more aunts, and then begin to calculate my cousins. There was twenty two grandchildren for my grandparents, and, at least four great grandchildren. There were also the "honorary" members of our family. My Uncle W, who, was the brother to my mom's first husband. Another Uncle who wasn't really my uncle, but, I loved calling him that anyway. So many extra Aunt and Uncles that even now, I call my aunt and uncle. My family. Now try cramming all those people into one house and organizing something called a meal. Somehow though, my grandmother always did it and the house was filled to the rafters. Not only with people, but love, and happiness, and best of all, memories.

Those were the days when my life was normal. Then she died.

I can't say exactly when it began, only that I was eight years old. It was after my grandmother died. I was laying in my grandfather's bed with my niece. We talked and giggled and she finally fell asleep, or maybe I did, I'm not sure. I suppose in the end it doesn't matter, we were both asleep.

The very next thing I remember was feeling a weight pressing very hard against my back and something pressing between my legs. I froze. I couldn't move, or think, or even breathe for what seemed like a few minutes.

The fingers pressed harder and I felt them slip inside me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I was so scared. I felt lips and tongue on my neck, and something hard pressing into my backside.

I stared at the back of my niece as I lay there, alone, afraid, being violated. I couldn't move. What if she woke up? What if he did the same thing to her? I layed there until I felt something warm on my back and his fingers withdrew from me. I cried for a very long time afterwards, careful to keep the sniffles and shaking shoulders to myself.

Two more times this happened. Even though I begged my mother and father to let me sleep on the couch.

When it all did come out, which is a story in of itself, my mother said I was crazy. That I had a chemical imbalance in my brain that made me believe that happened, even though it didn't. I was sent to a foster home, which began the worst years of my life.

I just want to warn my regular readers, that upon the suggestion of someone whom I respect very much, I will be trying to go through my childhood in words, here, on my blog. There is very little good stuff for me to write about and things will be darker then they have been in the past. I hope you'll bear with me while I revisit my past. Maybe I can find the answer to how to deal with the here and now if I do.