Remembering Granma

                                                           Remembering Granma

 

The table in her small kitchen was red with white squares, and the chairs had chrome legs and soft red cushions. It was where I sat sometimes after school waiting for my mom to get home from work.  Granma lived alone in a small cottage where grand kid after grand kid came to visit when parents worked late or needed a night out. It was where her grown children came to talk about the fairness of life, or the injustice, take your pick. She was a good listener and during her lifetime I bet she mended more than socks, but many hearts with her gentle ways. I remember walking with her to her place of work that you could smell a mile away. it was the smell of ice-cream cones being made. It was a sweet smell like cooked sugar that grew stronger with each step we took. Back then a kid could walk all around town without any worries about much of anything. Doors were always open, and the only rule was to be home in time for supper. My walks with Granma were filled with stories about her life and questions about mine. She would tell me about the time she worked in the circus, where she met my grandpa who I never got to meet. He was a band leader and she a tight rope walker. They eventually married and had four children, leaving the circus, and starting what she called a somewhat normal life. My mom told me that her dad was a drinking man who liked to gamble his paycheck away leaving my Granma to fend for herself usually by cleaning someone’s toilets and watching their kids all for some money for food. Grandpa wasn’t a nice guy when he drank, and grama was who he took it out on blaming her for having to many kids to feed. He died a few years before I was born from liver disease, and it couldn’t have happened to soon. Forgive me God.  I have so many wonderful memories of her, the way she smelled of white shoulders perfume and her long white hair she braided on top of her head. I remember her talking to me in her gentle voice, always trying to tell me more stories of her past so I would know where my roots came from. It was long before any DNA tests, so it was her relying on her memories that she shared with me. She’s been gone a long time now, as are her children but her memory burns deep inside of me and brings a smile to my face every time I smell peanut butter cookies baking, a hot apple pie cooling on the window sill, and especially when I walk down the street to the now abandoned ice-cream cone factory where the sweet smell of sugar cooking fills me with happiness that she was a part of my life I will cherish forever. I wish she could have met my children but sometimes I see her in one of their faces when they smile her smile or ask me questions about her. They sit memorized as I share her stories of circus life, leaving out the parts her heart was broken. Id show them pictures of her dressed in her costumes looking so beautiful and graceful as she walked the tight rope with a smile on her face. I know someday we will meet again because she told me we would, and Granma never once lied to me. Until that day, I will think of her often and listen to her gentle voice as I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face and the sweet smell of ice-cream cones forever etched in my memories of my Granma.

Mike 2023

BLANK EYES

                                                                        BLANK EYES:

 

I’m often asked why I write, and where I get my inspiration. I don’t speak for other writers, only myself when I say every sound, every smell, and every footstep I take further into the known and the unknown inspires me to reach deep into parts of my imagination and retrieve the ideas from which I write. The characters I write about are like versions of people I’ve known or just passed by on the streets of the world, and sometimes just everyday people who have affected my life in some way. Much like the writers of words, the writers of music are a marriage of words and sounds coming together to leave the writer wondering how that all happened. I often think about the great writers of the past and wonder how they were inspired, and it occurs to me that no amount of time can change the inner self of one who reaches into his imagination, pulls out something beautiful, and shares it with whoever will read or listen. I wake every morning wondering what will appear on my screen or paper as I sit down and piece together words that come alive and begin the journey of a future story. It’s not a challenge for me, but rather a blank slate beckoning me to come closer and be sucked into my own world where characters come alive, and every word has its own place and part to play. I love to write and I’m thankful I have been given all this time to put pen to paper and make people think, cry, laugh, and stare with blank eyes as they go back to chapter one and read it again.

Mike 2023

Moth-balls

                                                                    Mothballs

 

He believed in being frugal when it came to most of the things in his life. If his eyeglasses broke, he’d get out the cure-all known as black electrical tape. It didn’t bother or concern him if people laughed. It did bother mom however and even with the tenderness of her voice trying to show him not everything can be fixed with black electrical tape, it didn’t faze dad one little bit. He wore the same pair of shoes for decades, taking them to the shoe repair man whom dad grew to know very well over the years. He put new heels on them and soles if needed. He would put in new laces and give them a good shine all for Ten dollars. In his eighty years on earth, the man owned only three pairs of shoes. It was the same with his trousers that mom pressed with a hot iron and wet cloth, steaming a crease so straight it was amazing. He had several pairs of trousers, one pair for work, one for doing chores around the house, a pair for going to church, and one for a backup just in case he ripped or tore anything. This only meant one day of substitution as mom would break out her sewing kit and mend what needed mending very quickly. Dad was a creature of habit and didn’t like to stray too far from his comfort zone. I remember one very cold winter when he took his winter coat out of the cedar chest where he kept it along with a couple of sweaters and warm wool socks. I could smell him coming from a distance and mom begged him to let her air it out, but he believed the smell would go away eventually. It did however make for mixed feelings among the people on the bus, some plugging their noses trying to shut out the smell of cedar. Smells like my grandma’s closet, one guy said. You afraid of getting moths mister, another one asked. Dad wasn’t concerned with sly remarks and buried his head in the morning newspaper concentrating on world problems and certainly not the smell of his winter coat. The smell was pretty much gone about the time he didn’t need the coat anymore as spring had sprung. That’s when he kept his rubber boots and an old gray umbrella close by in case the forecast called for rain. Again, the people on the bus laughed at him wearing rubber boots on sunny days, his umbrella at his side and ready. Go ahead and laugh he thought to himself, the boots will protect my shoes and who wants to buy new shoes? When dad worked in the yard, cutting the grass and trimming bushes better than the people who made all those amazing animal carvings at Disney land, he’d wear his yard trousers and a white t-shirt. Years ago, he even wore a pair of garden shoes he made out of a pair of unclaimed shoes he purchased from his friend the cobbler. He told dad sometimes someone passes away before they could claim their shoes and he usually sold them very cheaply and that’s all dad needed to know. The fact they were a pair of spats didn’t bother him as most things didn’t. Growing up in my house, you just got used to dads’ ways and went with it. What always seemed strange to me was all of us including mom, never went without nice things. New school clothes every year, new shoes every few months, and no access to cedar chests as every year we got new winter coats and boots. Mom got her hair done every other week while dad cut his own hair using a set of clippers, he bought at a thrift store. Personally, I saved up and bought an old car to moms delight who said never riding another bus was fine with her. Sure, it was strange living with a man who went without what others believed to be important but after his death, as a simple pine box was lowered into the ground, the truth about my dad was revealed. Not long after the funeral, an envelope was given to mom by a man claiming to be dad’s attorney. None of us knew he even had one. The letter simply said, I choose a simple life and wasn’t concerned with personal belongings. My shoes protected my feet no matter how they looked. My boots protected my shoes and my trousers always looked good thanks to your mom. It’s okay that you thought I was crazy, but I knew you loved me no matter how eccentric I may have appeared to be. Hopefully, I’m someplace now where the only cedar I smell is from the giant cedar tree forests. I can throw out my supply of black electrical tape because nobody here needs glasses. I always knew I wouldn’t ever be able to give you all the things I wanted to give but hopefully, this will show you that going without, so others don’t have to isn’t all that difficult. I love all of you and someday with any good luck, we will meet again. In the meantime, have a happy life for me. Inside that envelope was a check for five million dollars in a bag of mothballs.

Mike 2023

Author Mike OConnor: Remembering, or not

Author Mike OConnor: Remembering, or not:                                                                    Remembering, or trying to   Seventeen years old and finding myself on...