“To me, home was never a place; it was a feeling. It was the way the people I loved said my
name.”
I read this quote on Facebook and dissolved into a salty puddle. I had just come off several weeks of emotional
intensity so unyielding that I almost decided to run away to some remote town in Montana where no one would find me and become a waitress in a little diner; just go and live the simple, undetected life. Ridiculous, I know. One of the kids would sniff me out eventually.
Anyhow, ever
since reading that lovely piece,I’ve closed my eyes and brought back those
sounds; the different cadences, inflections and notes of my parents’ and
grandparents’ voices. All beloved, and
the ones who meant “home”. For instance:
My maternal grandmother, Ynez. Pronounced exactly the way it looks –
“Y-Nez”. (My grandfather’s brother
married a girl named Inez. Ynez and
Inez. Only in the south!) I can close my
eyes right now and hear Grandmother’s distinctive voice calling me by the
nickname she and my mom used, “Sue-Sue” – given to me as an infant because I
was born with skin so olive that I was nicknamed “Sue-Sue the Indian Maid”.
Grandmother called me that until I seemed to outgrow it. I also outgrew the
olive skin, much to my dismay.
It
was to my Grandmother and Grandfather’s home that I was sent for weeks during a
summer vacation, or when my parents both came down with hepatitis. I was an almost pathologically shy child, so
much so that any sort of new environment sent me into hysterics. However, stepping into their home on Bell
Avenue in Kannapolis was soothing and calming.
I knew I was safe there; I knew I was loved. Grandmother was responsible for so much of
that.
I
can hear her voice as I would come in the back door of the house, having just
arrived; “Well, hello there, Sue-SUE!”
And I would be enveloped in one of her wonderful hugs. She smelled of a combination of the Revlon
Moondrops moisturizer she always wore and the Camay soap she used. The hug would be accompanied by a kiss on the
cheek, leaving a red lip print. And just like that, I was home
and in the embrace of my grandparents.
When
I woke up in the morning and my thick brown hair needed brushing, I would hear “SUE-Sue,
your hair looks like an R-A-G-G M-O-P-P ragg mopp! Let’s get that brush, honey bunch!” Points to anyone who gets the R-A-G-G M-O-P-P reference.
If
we were getting ready to go somewhere, she would call: “SUE-Sue!
Let’s go, kiddo!” And off we
would go, either to the grocery store or to the bank in her blue-green Chrysler
Imperial, a car that was to me so beautiful and luxurious I was sure my
grandparents were rich. And Ynez herself
was always stylish, not a brown bouffant hair out of place, lipstick
perfect. I never saw her wear pants in
or out of her house, and she always wore heels, even though she had a hip
deformity that must have made wearing those shoes painful.
If
I had been outside playing in the backyard until dusk, and needed a bath: “SUE-Sue, you need a bath! Shoo, kiddo!”; shoo being one of her favorite expressions.
She loved reading the Erma Bombeck and Ann Landers columns in the local newspaper, and if she found something particularly funny in them she would relate them, laughing hysterically until she became breathless. We were all expected to understand exactly what she was saying when she couldn't talk.
Once
my grandfather, H.B., came home from work, things would begin to wind down for
the evening. His was and is another
voice that meant security…H.B was a little more reserved, and he could be stern. He was an AVP in Finance for a local textile
mill, and wore a suit and tie every single day of his life. He even looked corporate in his pajamas. However, under that stern, corporate exterior
was a heart of mush. My grandparents had
a little Chihuahua mix named Butchie that they adored. Every single night, my grandfather
would pick Butchie up, take him into the kitchen and give him a little bowl of
ice cream when I got one. Pet chocolate
marshmallow ice cream. For the record,
Butchie hated us grandchildren, and for the most part we gave him all the room
he wanted.
In
early 1966, my parents separated, and my mother took us home to Bell
Avenue. My grandfather paid extra
attention to my brother, knowing that Lee missed our father. I began to feel a little shunted aside. However, I didn’t know how closely he was actually
paying attention to me. On television I
had seen a little doll called “Twinkie”, manufactured by Marx. She was a little rubber doll with rubber
clothes and interchangeable wigs, and though I never said a word out loud, I wanted
that doll. Granddaddy must have seen the look on my face
during a commercial, because several days later he came home from work and
handed me a bag from a local department store.
He bought “Twinkie” for me. He
had the sweetness to give me something he knew I wanted but for which I
wouldn’t ask. I’ve never forgotten that.
Church
was an integral part of their life.
Saturday nights would roll around and Grandmother would say, “Sue SUE,
time to polish your shoes for church tomorrow!
And get a good bath and wash your hair!”
The next morning, we would get in the Imperial and drive the short
distance to First Presbyterian, where Granddaddy was an elder and taught their
Sunday School class. I was always a
little shy about going to the class for my age, so Grandmother would take my
hand in her white-gloved one, walk me to Mrs. Goodnight’s class, and say –
firmly – “Susan, don’t worry. I’ll be
here to get you.” I never doubted her. To this day I can feel her gloved hand around mine.
There
is one other voice from Kannapolis that is so much a part of my life. My cousin
Cathy – only a few months younger than I – was quite often at our Grandparents’
home the same time as I. She was blonde
and slim while I was chubby and dark, outgoing while I was the opposite – but
we loved each other unreservedly. Around
the time we were six or seven, the commercials for “Raid!” aired on TV – if
you’re old enough you remember hapless bugs opening the door to a can of Raid –
and we made a game out of that, one of us being the bug, the other the
insecticide. We did that for hours,
incorporating our younger brothers and sisters if they were around. I can hear it now, we children who played the bugs screaming "RAID!" – and bless her heart, it
was rare that our grandmother ever threw us out of the house as we played. I know without a doubt that to this day, for
her own reasons, the voices of Grandmother and Granddaddy meant “home” to Cathy
as well. Her voice still says “home” to
me, whether we are texting emailing, or talking on the phone. She sounds like Grandmother – her laughter,
her inflections.
I
have children and grandchildren. My
children and I laugh, we talk, on occasion we yell. A couple of them delight in making fun of the
way I say their names. But I hope to
them that my voice means “home” to them, and that the way I pronounced their
names will one day be a source of affection, warmth and love.