Grammy T.

My grandmother on my mother’s side, lived with us, on and off, when I was young. Lora had some mental problems, though I never witnessed it. She had to be admitted into Med State Hospital a few times for help. Her behavior caused my mom much anguish, being on the receiving end of her rantings that the FBI are coming after her.

I adored my grammy T. She carried herself elegantly and was quick to laugh. She would play, tirelessly, a guessing game we liked…I see something green…is it the clock?... No!...and on and on. She stayed with us sometimes, and slept on a twin bed set up for her on the third floor. I would often, get up in the middle of the night and sneak up the stairs and crawl into bed with her. She continued work as a secretary even with her set-backs. When her alarm, which she placed clear across the room, would go off in the morning, she would bound out from under the covers, running on top of the mattress and leaping off the bed to go shut it off. She said it helped her wake up that way. I never wanted to miss her morning take off and flight! Thrilling! 

She wrote children stories and poetry. Her poems are more like limericky advice and ruminations.

Whenever you find a kindred soul                                                                                          

Never let them go.                                                                                                                               

Or much happiness you will forfeit                                                                                  

Say I told you so.                                                                                                                  

Those are the words of a prophet                                                                                  

They’re tried and true.                                                                                                             

So hold your good friends tightly.                                                                                              

For they are good for you.

I have hundreds of these, and I made a book to hold the dear poems safely.                    

Some reflect her episodic behavior.

I once asked for asylum                                                                                                              

In this land so free.                                                                                                                      

But to an insane asylum                                                                                                         

They sent me

Or

Dear little Schizophrenic                                                                                                         

With laughter and your tears                                                                                                       

It behooves us every one.                                                                                                               

To smooth out your fears

And I’ve found some endearing gems in the bunch…

The prettiest girl we’ve ever seen                                                                                               

Is a miss who’s just fourteen.                                                                                                 

Eyes so innocent and wise                                                                                                   

Never a guilty thought did hide                                                                                                      

Skin and mouth just like a rose                                                                                                         

Why, of Jeanie, such a fuss?                                                                                                          

Just cause she belongs to us.                                                                                                      

And we love her, that we do.                                                                                                          

If you knew her, you would too.

My brother remembers coming home from school, to find Lora at the typewriter listening to loud rock and roll music, thinking to himself, “That’s so cool!” Her childrens stories were accompanied by her own simple illustrations of princesses and strange-looking characters, and are really quite wonderful, made by using colored pencils and watercolor washes. She sometimes used her grandchildren as inspiration, changing our names, slightly. She also started to write a fictional novel, something my mom never allowed me to read, saying it was silliness. I finally got a chance to read it in my mother’s belongings, after she passed. It turned out to be semi-autobiographical, again with the names changed. It was okay reading, at first, interesting to me because my cool grammy wrote it. The story was sexy in parts and some of the pages, being numbered, were missing, just as it was getting interesting. “Oh mom!” she obviously was embarrassed of those passages and removed them. As I got further into the novella, around 80 pages or so, there was some delusional paranoia overtaking the lead character. It was quite an insight into what she must have been going through, in real time.