Grandmother – Sittin' Ugly Sistahs

Grandma’s Banana Bread

Posted on November 20, 2023 by Nancy Malcolm

Every November my thoughts turn to family gatherings, beautiful, crisp fall days, pumpkin pie spice, and my grandmother, Martha Margaretha Claughton, born on November 20, 1891.

My grandmother always went by ‘Grandma’. If you really know me, you know about my grandma. She was such an important part of my life growing up and even though she was a no-nonsense kind of gal, she influenced my very essence of being a woman, mother, and now, grandmother. She was strong-minded, and willful, yet gentle when she needed to be.

Grandma lived in Duplex A on Hayden Street in Amarillo, Texas

Today, one of the greatest blessings of my life is being a grandmother. I never could have imagined the sweetness, the absolute heart-breaking tenderness of holding a grandchild. It feels holy, like a sacred trust ordained from above, and ever since Boo and I embarked on our journey as grandparents, our lives have changed for the very best. Being a grandparent suits Boo like a custom-fit Giorgio Armani in midnight blue. Perfection.

As for me, the transformation has been more subtle. My heart feels bigger, my spirit is gentler, and my patience is sometimes like the Energizer Bunny, which is a surprise to my daughters who definitely didn’t get a patient mom. My grandkids call me Nannie, and I swear it is the sweetest sound on earth to hear one of them call me by that name.

When my girls were younger and I worked full time, I felt a certain hurriedness to our days. Panic at not getting ‘it’ all accomplished, and not quite good enough according to Better Homes and Gardens. I secretly envied all of my friends who were stay-at-home moms. I compared myself to them, like apples to oranges. And when my single mom days were upon us, I even felt more inept at the perfection I saw in others. I was judging my insides by other people’s outsides.

Losing my own mother at a very young age, I longed for a momma like a lone, train whistle carries on the wind, winsome and low. Through it all, Grandma was there. Steady, true, and happily scooping me up in her soft, capable arms. I don’t know where I would be today if I hadn’t had my grandma.

Grandma stepped in with her homemade quilts and flapjacks made in the cast iron skillet. She cooked our lunch every Sunday after Church. She made my clothes and when I was old enough, she taught me to use the old Singer sewing machine. She taught me to play Canasta, plant Zinnia’s in the garden, and make homemade banana bread. She loved me the very best she could. Always.

And today, all these years later, I’m standing in my kitchen mixing up the banana bread to bake and chopping the pecans for Grandma’s pecan pie that I’ll take to my brother’s for Thanksgiving. I always wear her pearls on Thanksgiving day and I know how proud she would be that we think of her and remember her special recipes and her love.

I’m sharing Grandma’s Banana Bread recipe in hopes that you will try it someday, and if you do, think about my grandma. She always baked this bread in coffee cans (Folger’s) only because she never owned a loaf pan, so coffee cans are the original and preferred way. I don’t use pecans in ours because some of our grandkids have nut allergies, but if you can have the pecans, please do!

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all and Happy Birthday, Grandma!!

Grandma’s Banana Nut Bread

1 cup sugar

½ cup shortening (I use vegetable oil)

2 eggs

1 ½ cup mashed bananas

2 cups flour

Pinch salt

1 tsp. baking soda

½ cup chopped pecans

Bake in greased coffee cans (or loaf pan)

350 degrees for 55-60 min.

Aging, Family, Grandmother, Gratitude

BABY IN THE MIRROR

Posted on May 16, 2023 by gingerkellergannaway

by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Besides reading to and dancing with my four-month old grandson, I adore showing him the baby in the mirror. I take him to our bathroom mirror, the full length mirror in the office, and the mirror on my antique dresser and say, “Who’s that baby in the mirror?”

Winslow’s bobble head goes from looking downwards to straight ahead where he sees his own fat-faced image. There’s a second of surprise when he first notices the baby in the mirror before he gives himself an open-mouthed smile. I embellish the moment with, “Who’s that baby in the mirror? He looks a lot like you!” My high pitched tones make my grandson’s head shake as he gives his reflection a bigger smile and he moves his chubby arms.

“Hey there, Baby in the Mirror!” I add. “That’s a cute Baby in the Mirror!” Winslow’s eyes widen and the mirror baby keeps smiling. “Why don’t you tell that Baby in the Mirror hello?” Then Winslow wobbles his head as he furrows his brow and starts “talking.” His ohhs, ahhs, and squeals grab the attention of his reflected self.

I urge both babies on with, “Look at that Baby in the Mirror talk! Isn’t he the best?” Winslow raises the octave and duration of his long A vowel screams, so I hold him tighter because his talking requires involuntary kicks and arm movements. I lean in closer to the mirror and mimic an impressed sports announcer, “Listen to that smart Baby in the Mirror! He is amazing!”

Last week I heard about a superstition that showing a baby his mirrored reflection will make teething worse! Winslow has been drooling and sucking his fingers for a couple of weeks now. Should I apologize to him and his parents for increased teething misery?

From the “evil eye” to “don’t let a cat near the crib; it will suck out the baby’s breath,” there are so many old wives tales about babies. (https://www.huffpost.com/entry/baby-superstitions_n_610874fde4b0497e67026d74)

The “don’t tickle the bottom of your baby’s feet – it will make him stutter” might make sense, but the “baby in the mirror” warnings don’t bother me.

Scientific studies recommend quality baby mirror time. https://pathways.org/mirrors-good-baby/ They’ve also tested when a baby actually recognizes himself in the mirror. (Probably not until he’s almost two years old). Put a dot of ketchup on a baby’s nose, and show him a mirror. When he touches his own nose instead of his reflection, he realizes he’s looking at himself.

We babysit two days a week. Gary helps heat up bottles and distract Winslow with a cross between yodeling, humming, and what sounds like someone herding animals while I take a shower.

Since we don’t have a backyard or an abundance of baby toys, I’ll continue hanging out with that Baby in the Mirror. Winslow’s beyond the soul-sucking period, and teething is already a problem we’re tackling with cold soft plastic toys filled with purified water and our thumb knuckles while our grandson drools and shoves both fists into his mouth. Our biggest worry now is Winslow gagging himself.

We’re so lucky that Casey and Catherine do not scold us for our rusty baby skills or blame us for a tiny scratch on Winslow’s perfect nose or his dimpled wrist. They’re amazing parents – full of gratitude and patience and love!

And Winslow, well, he’s a joyful miracle. He doesn’t mind our grey hair or stained clothes. He is oblivious to a dusty bookshelf or dirty dishes in the sink. He greets us with open-mouthed smiles and kicks his chunky legs when Casey hands him off. He also widens his eyes and gives the Baby in the Mirror the same welcome multiple times a day. Winslow makes me forget my crooked left side, my flabby wrinkled body, and my cluttered apartment. Even my complaining old cat loses her ability to annoy me when Winslow is around. My grandson’s ability to ignore his aching gums or a wet diaper when he sees his double-chinned best buddy – that Baby in the Mirror – reminds me of the Zen masters. Live in the now and embrace the happiness right in front of you!

Family, Fathers, Grandmother, Mothers, Relationships

Stained by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on January 19, 2023 by gingerkellergannaway

I met my new favorite person in this world two weeks ago – Winslow McClain Gannaway! He weighed eight pounds, ten ounces and made funny faces while he slept. His mother Catherine said he looked just like his dad, Casey, my middle son. I saw Catherine in his chubby cheeks and soulful eyes as well as Casey in his long limbs and perfect nose.

We begin life with people wanting us to resemble our parents. “He has his dad’s big feet” or “his mom’s smile.” And as kids, we imitate our parents – combing our hair like Momma’s, pretending to shave like Dad. We often adopt their interests. Chefs have children who love to cook. The lawyer hopes his/her offspring will one day take over the family practice. A tennis player starts lessons for the kids as soon as they can hold a racket. For eleven years or so many children follow their parents’ lead.

As a kid I went to church every Sunday and learned to love our family’s traditions – from Good Friday crawfish boils to getting up before dawn for long vacations. Then my teenage brain veered into other directions, and I pushed back.

I went from loving to dance with my kid feet atop my dad’s size fourteen shoes to hating my size eight feet when I entered eighth grade. Would I, like him, need to drive to Lafayette to find oversized shoes? Would I even find women size twelves for when I became a senior?

I rebelled, rejected, and criticized my parents. I resented their help and worked hard not to become them. I felt proud of our differences and later believed my own kids would be closer to me than I was to my parents. I gave my kids more choices as I also hovered over their lives.

However, after all my pushing back on my parents’ influences, I realize I am stained with personality traits and habits that are just like theirs. My dad ate breakfast in white v-neck t-shirts and slacks. His undershirts had stains from previous meals, rushed shaving jobs, or paint from work. I remember Momma exclaiming,“Reginald!” at the table when Dad’s sloppy manners created round grease stains that Momma’s aggressive cleaning could not erase. So I judged Dad for his messy eating.

Just yesterday I noticed a circular stain on the right thigh of my favorite jeans. I can’t remember if I spilled the contents of a pork taco or the filling from a blackberry cobbler on that leg. When did I become stained with the flaws of my parent? Like Dad, I’m a messy eater. I also have big feet and hate asking others for directions. I love every kind of fruit and I salt my watermelon. I enjoy gatherings with relatives and friends where good food, strong drinks, and well-told jokes connect us. My siblings and I got his short-fused temper as well as his love of movies. He taught us and his grandkids how to pull our rackets back and to get our first serves in when playing tennis. I embrace Dad’s love of travel and adventure, especially the times that are unplanned and serendipitous.

When I was young relatives said I looked like my dad (which did not make me happy); I’d rather look like my momma with her petite stature and tiny waist. I still do have plenty of Mom connections. She loved her breakfast food well done. My husband often warns me: “You’re burning your toast!” and I say the obvious, “That’s the way I like it.” Over the years with practice I have learned to make good gumbo and crawfish etouffee, but I still dream of her pork roast with rice and gravy that I cannot copy. I also failed at mastering her portion-control ways; she never weighed over 110 pounds. She stayed a poulette (a small chicken) – dusting, picking-up, putting-away, ironing, cooking, and wiping clean every counter she passed. I did not inherit her need for a spotless kitchen and an organized living room.

I don’t think Momma nor Dad understood my love of reading and writing or my desire to live in a large city. They were small town born and bred, never leaving the south central Louisiana parish they raised their family in. Religion remained a major part of their lives, and they did their best to look the other way when their three grown daughters moved away from the Catholic Church.

I don’t attend weekly mass and I’ve not been in a confessional in more years than I want to confess to, but I often pray to the Virgin Mary and have rosaries in my desk, my car’s glovebox, and by my bedside.

The saying “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” fits my food tastes, entertainment tendencies, love of New Orleans and New York City, and interest in major tennis tournaments. I’ve learned to value my parents’ respect for close family ties and shared vacations. However, I have lived longer in Austin, Texas than I lived in Cajun Country. I believe in recycling, breakfast tacos, greenbelt hikes, tattoos, and lots of live music.

I have the Kellers’ obsession with movies and card playing and the LaTours’ love of music and laughter. The stains of my parents’ parents were pressed into their hearts and minds from those before them, so I claim the traits I’ve inherited, and now that Momma and Daddy have died, I do not want those stains to disappear. Like the thrift store robe that once belonged to my sister Kelly, I treasure old things, especially when they have imprints from my past.

I will hopefully leave my marks on my own three sons and their offspring. And one chilly day Winslow McClain Gannaway may ask me to make him some gumbo, and we will watch Cat Ballou together before I tuck him in at night and read him “Clovis Crawfish and His Friends.”

Family, Grandmother

The Power of Plants

Posted on September 23, 2021 by Nancy Malcolm

Lee, Grandma, and Courtney (in Grandma’s apron)

My grandma used to grow zinnias and nasturtiums in a long strip of a garden in her back yard. As soon as you opened the side door, the colors and fragrance would greet you, instantly brightening the day. The Amarillo, Texas soil was hard caliche, but Grandma had raked and tilled it in preparation for her flowers, so they would have the best chance to grow. She cared for them maternally and took great pride in their beauty. Grandma’s garden was in direct contrast from her years growing up on a dirt farm in Kansas. The zinnias brought her pure joy.

Grandma and I would go to the back yard and stand on the walkway surveying her garden. “I sure wish it would rain,” she’d say. “We really need it.” She talked a lot about rain, the lack of rain and when it was supposed to rain, and then we would turn on the hose and water her plants by hand. “Be sure to give each one a good long drink,” she’d say.

Bending down on her old, arthritic knees, Grandma would pick the weeds that dared to creep into her domain, and as she did, she talked to her zinnia’s as she would a child, “There you go, little girl. Now you’re safe from those bad weeds.”

“Help me up,” she’d say, and I would. Then we would stand on the sidewalk and just look. I can see her now, standing tall, with her red and white checked gingham apron on, squinting into the sun, her detachable sunglasses flipped up, admiring her work, feeling satisfied at a job well done.

“You know you can eat nasturtiums, but they sure are spicy,” she said.

“Why would you eat a flower?” I asked.

“I think some fancy people like to do that, but I just like to look at them. They’re beautiful,” she answered.

Before my grandpa died, he would let us go out to his vegetable garden and use a hoe or rake. It was a his and hers garden situation. I don’t remember as much about his garden because Grandma made me help her outside and in the kitchen, her empire. Not only did she have her flowers, but she also had a peach tree and a pecan tree. Come June, the peaches would be ready to pick, and Grandma would begin her peachapalooza. Peach pie, peach cobbler, peach ice cream, whole peaches, sliced peaches, poached peaches, canned peaches, peach preserves, and jam. It was the same with her pecan tree too, as pecan pie was her real specialty, right up there with homemade cinnamon rolls and oatmeal cookies.

When my girls were little, I had an outside plant or two, and the usual ivy growing in the kitchen window, but I had little time or thought for gardening. I don’t recall feeling any kind of way about plants except for how much trouble they might be. My friend, Chrys, used to have her whole patio covered in plants and I was always in awe. How was she able to do it all with seemingly so little effort and so much joy?

When I moved to Austin, twenty-three years ago, I fell in love with plants again. Even when Boo and I were dating, we would have competitions on who’s plants would grow the fastest and stay alive. And although I would never call Boo Mr. Greenjeans, he has taught me a lot about caring for plants.

Our backyard and deck are home to thirty plus flowering plants that both give me joy and cause me angst. Like Grandma, I fuss over watering or when it will rain and why it hasn’t rained. I pick weeds and prune back. I cover and uncover in the winter, and I coax the baby sprouts in the spring. And as Grandma would, I often stand outside and survey my plants, talking sweetly to them as if they could hear me.

“Will you water my plants in the front yard?” I recently asked Boo.

“They are ‘our’ plants, you know. You’re not the only one who takes care of them.”

So, I corrected my wording to include “our”, but in my heart they are mine. Mine and Grandma’s. And when I see my flowers bloom or a tree branch with buds, I smile knowing Grandma would be proud of me.

The true meaning of the zinnia plant is affection, everlasting love, and remembrance. The zinnia symbolizes qualities that remind us to never take those we love for granted, and whether Grandma knew that or not, she lived it, wholeheartedly with her garden and with me.

My brother Jimmy, Great Aunt Lena, me, and Grandma under the Pecan Tree

Family, Grandmother

My Practice Grandchildren by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on April 10, 2021 by gingerkellergannaway

Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

Each of my three grown sons have wonderful ladies in their lives. Two are engaged! I’m thrilled to know they have love in their lives that has helped them navigate the trials and tribulations of the pandemic. I also have a selfish wish I never say in front of these very groovy couples: I want grandchildren!

One day I want to brag and smile when I tell friends about the unbelievable beauty and intelligence of my offsprings’ offspring. But until then, I will be happy with my three beautiful and intelligent “practice grandchildren.” Jaco, Sunny, and Guppy!!!

I first met Jaco when he was a baby and his mom and I walked our dogs together in my old neighborhood. She would walk towards my house early in the morning led by her dog Lou, a regal Great Pyrenees, and Jaco faced forward in a Babybjorn carrier. As Jaco got used to me, he’d kick both of his chubby legs and give me excited smiles when my dog and I came outside. After several months of shared walks, he’d say “Mi-Mi!” when he saw me. ( However, Natalie and I were not sure if he was referring to me or my dog Millie). He shared the same wide-eyed joy for an adult who tickled his bare feet or for a dragonfly that landed on his mom’s arm. (Babies from 4 to 10 months old are very easy audiences!) But on a stroll down a trail in an off-leash dog park when Jaco was the wise age of two and a half, he gave both of my knees a spontaneous hug and said, “I love you so much!” My heart filled with a rush of love that reminded me of that tummy flutter that happens in the early months of pregnancy.

Now at age four, Jaco has matured beyond such displays of affection. During our walks he talks nonstop about the movie Cars and quotes Lightening McQueen as if he’s the cartoon car’s agent. And his long light brown curls bounce when he’s reimagining a favorite movie scene until he stops along the trail to point at the ground and say, “Look!! A roly-poly party!” So I stop and marvel with him at the crowd of bugs squirming at the base of a cypress tree. His sharp eyes miss nothing, and his curious intelligence has that “carpe diem” attitude towards the natural world so that walking with him is always part Discovery channel and part Comedy Central when he makes up silly rhymes or remembers some of Tow-Mater’s best jokes. I’ve watched Jaco grow from a stationary baby to a super curious toddler to a confident older brother and he makes me believe the world can be sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows!

My second “practice grandchild” fits her nickname like fine crushed ice settles neatly into the thin paper cone of a snowball on a summer afternoon. Sunny’s presence is always as welcome as a cold treat on a hot day. Almost 3 years-old, Sunday Joy (my friend Crystal’s granddaughter) daily surprises her parents and friends with a capacity for love and creativity that’s only surpassed by her intelligence and wit.

Her clothing style reflects her multi-colored personality. Some days her flowered dress will match the colorful barrettes in her hair and her rainbow sneakers. Other days she’ll wear a couple of shirts, multiple scarves, five bracelets, a floppy hat and be naked from the waist down. Whatever outfit she chooses to throw together, she owns it whether she’s prancing in the backyard with her dog or chasing Oma Crystal around the living room. She started talking early and by two, she was belting out classics such as “The Wheels on the Bus” like a young diva or holding a small notepad and pencil while asking, “May I take your order?” when pretending to be a waiter at her parents’ bar and restaurant, the Cavalier.

Sunny & Crystal at The Cavalier’s Wickie Walkup

Her grandpa Ric, who died of cancer before she was born, was the most soulful, wise, and loving human I’ve ever known. He had a smile reminiscent of Paul Newman’s grin in Cool Hand Luke. His joie de vivre lit up his whole face and shone through his mischievous eyes.

Sunny smiles like Grandpa Ric and she laughs like Oma Crystal, explosive and free. The way she greets a friends with a sweet-toned, “You want to play with me” reveals her big, generous heart, and the way she says good-bye with a hug shows her exuberant love.

Every time I see her smile it’s like I won the Trifecta in the day’s biggest race. I always greet her as “Sunny Bunny! Sunny Bunny!” in a bouncy voice because she’s 26 pounds of laughs and smiles and JOY.

I met my third “practice grandchild” the day she was born. Two years ago Natalie, Jaco’s mom, had a midwife help her deliver Gillespie, and I was lucky to be her first visitor because I picked up Jaco to give his parents a few hours of rest.

Guppy has large brown eyes that watch the world intensely. She took her time getting used to me. Like her brother, she surveyed me from her mom’s BabyJorn carrier. She did not smile as quickly as Jaco did. I had to earn Guppy’s smiles. During our dog park walks, I’d chat with Jaco about ladybugs and cacti. We’d find cool sticks to use as canes or drum sticks. And his little sister listened and watched, taking it all in and waiting for the time she’d have lots to say. The first time she called me, “Gingah,” it was barely above a whisper and she looked embarrassed by my huge smile and watery eyes. When she started walking she revealed her bold adventurous side. Her curiosity pulled her toddling ahead of us on the dirt trail. Soon she’d be climbing through a hole in a fence or chasing a butterfly without a thought of us.

She first showed her trust in me at a playground this past fall. She held my hand and guided me to the bright yellow plastic slide and let me help her up the steps before she went down the slide backwards and head first- a daring toddler full of confidence.

This Easter I dyed eggs with my “practice grandchildren” in Crystal’s backyard. Sunny, as hostess, made sure we all had enough Annie’s cheddar bunnies. Jaco sat next to me and reminded me of Lightning McQueen’s best scenes as he carefully placed eggs in blue, green, purple, and pink cups of dye. Guppy sat across from her brother and often dropped her eggs on the wooden picnic table where they cracked, so she’d start to peel the boiled egg, giving more attention to eating than coloring. Natalie, Crystal, and I used white crayons to draw flowers, stars, polka dots, and names on the pre-dyed eggs. The artistic dying of eggs interested the kids for 30 minutes before Sunny led her company to the yard’s sandbox and toy cars and trucks and a bubble machine. I felt honored to share an Easter tradition with my three favorite kids. No matter what trouble the news focuses on, I have hope that my “practice grandchildren” will continue to make the world sweeter, brighter, and better.

Contemplations, Grandmother

The Mantle Clock

Posted on February 15, 2021 by Nancy Malcolm

That black mantle clock stayed with Grandma even in the nursing home.

Occasionally, as a child I would spend the night with my grandma. She lived in a small, stucco duplex on Hayden Street in Amarillo, Texas. Modest is an accurate term to describe my grandma’s house, modest and comfortable. Grandma lived a simple life and was quiet by nature, and since she did not own a television, her house was very quiet, too. The rattle or clang of pots and pans in the kitchen or the on and off of her sewing machine was the only noticeable sound, except for a long sigh or wince as she lowered herself into the swivel armchair by the window, smoothing her apron and rubbing her knees.

On the mantle, proudly displayed in the center, right above the little gas heater was her black mantle clock. The ticking sound was steady and rhythmic and set the tone for Grandma’s house…methodical, never rushed.

My brother and I would ask to wind the clock when it wound down, and often she would let us, but only under her watchful eye and direction. She kept the key that wound the clock safely placed behind it. We understood that if the clock was wound too tightly, dropped or mistreated in any way, it would have to be taken to a clock repair shop and that would cost money. We instinctively knew she did not have the extra funds for that, and so we treated her clock with much respect.

At night as I lay on the lumpy pull-out sofa bed, under two or three handmade quilts, I would fall asleep to the ever present rhythm of the clock. My heart would begin to beat in time with the ticking and I would be lulled into a deep, peaceful sleep. During the day, the clock struck on the hour and half hour with a coil gong striking sound, but at night the gonging sound never made it into my dreams.

Now, in my den, on the mantle is a little French, battery operated clock that reminds me of Grandma’s mantle clock. In the mornings I find it peaceful yet strong as it regulates my heartbeat and sets the perfect tone to ‘sit ugly.’ Listening to the steady ticking reminds me to relax and slow down before the demands of the day take over. There is so much noise in our world, so many sounds that assault us from morning till night. Alarm clocks, blaring music, angry news, sirens or car alarms to warn us of various violations. Have you ever noticed that even commercials are louder than the television show itself?

The other day, I bolted out the door to get in my daily walk. I was halfway through my route when I noticed that I had been “thinking” or at least having mental chatter the whole time. I almost wasted my walk, my time to recharge. When I quiet my mind and listen to nature, my walk is restorative. When I worry, think too much or rush my walk, I waste the gift of today.

Birdies singing, squirrels scampering, the rustle of the wind through the trees; these are the sounds that heal. Nature heals us if we will let it, if we listen to the rhythmic beat of the earth. Everything and every living being falls into the pattern flow of the earth and if we purpose it, our footsteps are like the clock, peaceful yet strong, left-right, left-right. Thich Nhat Hanh, the Buddhist priest and author of Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life, said, “Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.” As you walk, you are aware. Aware of your being, your thoughts, your surroundings, and your blessings. The blessings given to you by nature.

Grandma’s mantel clock was one of her most prized possessions. It was the center of her home and the focus of her life, especially as she got older. I think the steady ticking and hourly gonging comforted her and reassured her she was not alone. That classic, black mantel clock stayed with Grandma even in the nursing home, and when Grandma left this world, my brother became the proud recipient. He has it, even to this day, on his mantel, front and center.

We all need to find our rhythm, something that centers us and regulates our insides so that the outside world doesn’t wear us down or threaten our peace. Whether it is the steady ticking of a clock, the rhythmic pace of a mindful walk or sitting quietly with your hand over your heart, this is the day we have been given. We must embrace it. The path to peace is always methodical, never rushed.

Grandmother, Relationships

Martha Margaretha

Posted on November 20, 2020 by Nancy Malcolm

Growing up, everything I knew about beauty I learned from Grandma. She was my source of information on becoming a woman, wife and mother. Because my mother was deceased, I had no one to teach me the basics except Grandma and sometimes my dad, which as you might expect, was not always on point.

Grandma was raised on a dirt farm in Kansas. They were so poor that her parents sent the last two siblings to live with another family because they could not feed them all. She was only able to complete the 3rd grade because everyone was needed on the farm. Grandma told me once that she did not remember laughing as a child. “There was nothing to laugh about,” she said. “We worked from sunup to sun down.” And so my grandma, Martha Margaretha, was a serious, no nonsense kind of gal most of the time, but there was a little girl inside who longed to have fun and feel carefree.

Grandma was a wonderfully accomplished seamstress and made all of her clothes, even slips, bathrobes and nightgowns. She also made all of my clothes until I was old enough to sew for myself. She made my Barbies the most fabulous ensembles! I distinctly remember Barbie having a dress out of the same fabric as Grandmas, and even a fully lined coat, complete with bound buttonholes. Barbie never lacked for functional yet stylish outfits and neither did I. Grandma had an eye for pattern, texture, design and she could easily visualize how our dresses would turn out, while working tirelessly to make it come together.

Martha had two main rules on beauty: Always wear lipstick and always wear earbobs or ear screws, as she called them. In Grandma’s bedroom, on her dresser, was a tray that held her cherished personal items. There was a comb, brush and mirror set that I always remember her using. She wore Lady Esther loose face powder, and kept the box front and center. If I close my eyes I can smell the sweet fragrance and remember the way Grandma’s face felt so soft when I hugged and kissed her. She always smelled of this face powder and I think to this day I would know it, if I were lucky enough to breathe in that precious scent. The fluffy, round puff sat on top of this all important powder and next to it was her lipstick.

The dresser top was balanced with a simple jewelry box. The kind that opened up and the top folded back revealing a bottom section. Grandma had a large collection of earbobs, necklaces and brooches, most of which came from us, for Christmas or birthdays. She also had a small little cameo that she pinned on for special occasions. I would always ask to look through her jewelry box and try on these simple, yet glamorous pieces. Grandma truly believed in accessories, and although coming from humble beginnings, she wanted to look her best. It was very important to her.

With her beautiful silver gray hair, smart clothing, ear screws and lipstick, Martha always looked ‘put together’. No matter how poor you are, you can be clean and neat...a Martha mantra for sure. Everywhere she went, she would be complimented on her neat appearance, even winning Valentine Queen at her nursing home. Grandma lived well into her 101st year on this earth. I remember once, while visiting her in ‘the home’, one of the caregivers gave her a compliment, which made her proud, yet shy. After the worker left, Grandma turned to me and said, “It’s almost a curse to be so beautiful”, then she laughed and patted my hand.

My dad made sure she was always taken care of and able to live comfortably, and so the former Valentine Queen was content and loved. I know even now, as she sits playing Canasta in heaven, she’s looking all done up…lipstick, ear screws and that wonderful face powder. We would expect nothing less from Martha Margaretha.

As CoCo Chanel once said, “Beauty begins the moment you decide to be yourself.”

I think Grandma knew that too.

Aging, Grandmother

Technology: “Crooked as a Barrel of Snakes” by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on October 17, 2020 by gingerkellergannaway

Technology: “Crooked as a Barrel of Snakes!”

Grandma Keller had a nickel slot machine in the hall next to the front door of her home. Several times a day she’d use her walker to reach a stool set in front of the machine and feed it nickels from a metal cup she held.

The machine was green and spun pictures of cherries, oranges, plums, bells, and bars for the chance to win the $7.50 jackpot. You could win five nickels for two cherries or a cherry and a bar. The machine never hit the jackpot, and 18 nickels (for three bells) was the most it ever paid out. Like other one-armed bandits, it was programed to keep you playing without emptying its whole stash of coins.

Grandma loved to gamble! From betting on the horses at the New Orleans Fairgrounds to playing poker or bouree with her lady friends, she loved games of chance when money was at stake. And like most of us, she hated to lose. After depleting her cup of nickels at the slot machine, she’d mutter, “Crooked as a barrel of snakes,” before she’d limp back to her favorite arm chair in the living room or her large wooden rocking chair on the front porch. Then she could let a cup of coffee or a Salty Dog (depending on the time of day) help her forget her losses.

For me, dealing with technology is like pulling that slot machine’s long metal arm and hoping my nickel was not used in vain. When I try to reformat a document or navigate a spreadsheet, my head watches those wheels of cherries, plums, and oranges spin. Will my revised document look centered and pleasing to the eye? Will my saved numbers on my spreadsheet make it to my employer correctly? Who knows? Your guess is as good as mine.

At times the document I spent seventy minutes working on disappears, or the info I emailed to work gets me a reply that explains how I entered information incorrectly.

I’m not a total idiot. Before I retired from full time teaching, I managed my online grade book, and most of my assignments were linked to class calendars. However, I could no way navigate the current issues of a virtual classroom! When I successfully shared my screen during a Zoom meeting with some student teachers I work with, a twenty-one year old had to remind me, “Ms. Gannaway, your mic is on mute again.”

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

My oldest son helps me with blog posts, and he tries to remember that patience is a virtue. But I hear his deep sighs and see him comb his hair back with his palm before saying, “Mom, what did we do last time we edited an image?”

Back in the ‘90s someone told me, “Don’t be afraid. You won’t break the computer or permanently lose stuff.” Well, I don’t know about that! I often have no idea whether clicking on a link or pressing a return button will have the result I want. The slot machine gears keep spinning and it’s all a game of chance!

I hate the fear and uncertainty COVID has created in our lives. Yet technology and social media put me on uneven ground years ago. SnapChat made me nervous when those weird animated photos all went away in 24 hours. But it’s also unnerving that FaceBook stuff never goes away.

I don’t understand or trust the Cloud and I wish texting had not become my go-to form of communicating. Since I seldom see people in person, I miss hearing their voices.

I’m still more optimistic than pessimistic, so I’ll pull that cold metal arm that sometimes sticks a bit and trust the technological slot machine of life as I say, “Please, Lord” while I cross my fingers and watch the blur of fruit and accept the whirring, spinning uncertainty of now. I never know when several coins will clatter into the pay-off slot.

Emile is making sure the slot machine is still spinning

Grandmother

Stuck by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on March 24, 2018 by gingerkellergannaway

Stuck

When I was 5, I pushed my fat face through the stair railings at Grandma’s house. I was sitting on the 7th or 8th step that led up to the spooky attic door where grown-ups had told us “Egor lived.” My first cousin Gina was in the hallway below me (maybe I had hoped to scare or surprise her with my silly stunt). Unfortunately, I only succeeded in getting my head stuck between the wooden slats and crying like a clueless puppy who nudged a snapping turtle.

ANDREW on stairs — My nephew Andrew who is too wise to stick his whole head through Grandma’s stair railings!

I do not remember who rescued me from my trap, but I do recall the embarrassment more than I remember the pain of pulling my big head free from the railings. Gina’s giggles mixed with my brother Emile’s taunt, “Ha!Look what Ginger did!” And my younger sister Gayle pulled her thumb from her mouth and asked me the obvious, “Why you do that?”

Years later Gina would tease me with, “Remember when you stuck your big head thru Grandma’s stair rails?” as we both laughed and clinked our Miller Pony bottles. Gina was right. I was a chubby-cheeked, Charlie Brown-headed kid who rushed into silly situations.

Fat Face — My “Village of the Damned” stare, and why does a 4-year-old need a watch?

I still have memories of a few unfortunate messes I found myself stuck in:

Age 8: Deciding to help a wounded opossum take care of her newborn babies as she hissed at me.

Age 15: Talking my 2 younger sisters (ages 13 &11) into hanging out at the motel swimming pool to flirt with some young army recruits stationed at Fort Polk. The guys tried talking us into meeting them later at their motel rooms. My wiser, younger sisters convinced me sneaking out to visit them later that night was a bad idea.

Age 19: Mixing cocktails in my roommate’s Volkswagen as we drove across the river on a Sunday afternoon to a bar where we danced with guys in their 30’s who later that week called us to see if we were available as “dates” for their friends.

Age 35: Driving 6 young boys to Barton Springs for a summer swim and being told, “We don’t allow day cares to swim with only one chaperone.”

My curiosity or my ill-guided bravery often led me to make a few bumpy, rocky decisions. However, my stupid choices did not usually keep me stuck for too long. Back when I was stuck on Grandma’s stairs my mom or Aunt Toni likely rescued me. I even later served as a “cautionary tale” for future young cousins.

“Remember: Don’t be like Ginger and get your head stuck in those stair railings. Egor might come from the attic to get you!”

Grandmother

Big Jim by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on January 31, 2018January 31, 2018 by gingerkellergannaway

Big Jim

My siblings and I in a way grew up in a movie theater. Grandma Keller owned our hometown’s two movie theaters, and she let her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren get in free. My brother and sisters and I saw every movie that came to town. That lasted until 1968 when the ratings system began (G, M, R, and X). My parents viewed the Liberty Theater and Queen Cinema as free “babysitters.” We sometimes were dropped off at the show with paper bags holding hamburgers from Ruby’s Cafe if Momma and Dad’s night out began early. I remember strolling past a line of movie customers and waving at Miss Pearl (the ticket seller) as we made our way inside. A new ticket taker would get, “Our grandma is Mrs. Keller,” if he tried to stop our jaunty picture show entrance. Continue reading “Big Jim by Ginger Keller Gannaway” →

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