Tag: grandma

Dorothy Lee Dismukes McInnis Mecca the Third

She’s not really a Third, but the title doesn’t accurately reflect Queen Grandma’s importance without it. This is my grandmother: deeply southern, big-sunglass wearing, Pritchard Alabama born and politician father raised, eye-batting, order barking, Give me some suga’ saying, Grams. I used to be her favorite, but then my younger brothers got married. Marriage is valued over firstborn granddaughters in the south, so if you are an oldest child and approaching 24, move over. Your younger married siblings will take your birthright.

I was married at 29- a quick 10 months from spinster, per the southern family. These days, all conversations start like this: Brookie? Is Jeff taking care of you? No, wait. I got that mixed up. Brookie? Are you taking care of Jeff? Are you being sweet? I hope you’re treating him real good. You better keep that man. Let me talk to Jeff. Hey Dahlin’! Is my granddaughter taking good care of you? Is she cooking for you? Tell me what you’re eating…

Last month, the family gathered, covered in dots, to celebrate Grandma Dot’s 75th birthday. My job was to pick up the cake, and because it wasn’t ready on time, I spent an unexpected hour in the lobby of Classic Cakes. Browsing the clearance selection, I had this present-time flashback (because it still occurs) to all the clearance cakes my grandma had purchased from Classic Cakes through the years, stockpiled in her freezer, and forced upon us at birthdays or overdue birthdays, or hostess gifts, or a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday, or just because it was on sale. She can throw a grad party in under an hour because she’s owns 3 floor-to-ceiling cabinets full of party favors, tablecloths, hats, napkins, forks, candles, plates and noise-makers for every occasion. All that, and this was her conversation to my mom several years ago for my brothers’ high school graduation:

“Trisha? Honey, I’m here at this paper place… oohh, yes, is this one on sale too? and…hello? You there? I’m at this paper place and for $26 we can have the napkins…let me describe them…they have a confetti-like in the corner…well, a triangle shape in one direction, its real festive looking, and they have a special where you can get 100 napkins with their names imprinted. Well, the one I’m looking at has four girls names, because they all had their party together, but, I mean, we could print Ben-uh-Bry-uh Benjamin and Brandon’s names on—this one? No, no, I mean this one— Trisha? And they can put their school and the date…now did you say their school colors are burgundy and white?”

She bought the napkins.

She could decorate every house in China with Christmas Villages from her own attic.

In that little cake shop, I thought to myself: I love this cake lady. I love how every fall from the time I can remember though college, she took me school clothes shopping to “freshen up” my wardrobe. We only bought things that looked “smart”. I love how she bought me the Clinique three-step system from 8th grade on, and still asks me today if I’m using my Clinique when she looks closely at my face. I love how one of my earliest memories is going to Clowes Hall or Beef & Boards or the LS Ayers Tearoom in matching black velvet jackets. I love remembering those long summer days at her big house on the tiny lake, which, at the time, seemed like the ocean. I love that she once offered to pay me $100 to grow out my nails and/or memorize the Gospel of John. I love how she blames the way I eat a salad on the fact that I climbed trees with all those boys instead of enrolling in ballet. I love that she won’t let me out of the house if my nail polish is chipping until she’s removed it. I love that she offered us a 50-inch TV for my birthday, a mattress for our wedding, and a sliding glass door last summer and the only thing I’ve actually walked away with is a juicer from 1991. I love that at work, when someone asks: where did you get that unique hot pink and brown animal printed tunic with sequins around the neckline? Or that sharp black and white swirly ribboned tunic thing with the white linen capris, I can say: my Grams. She gave me a Wedding Trousseau. I had never heard of a trousseau until I got engaged. It’s a collection of clothing and linens that a bride assembles for her marriage so she’s all prepared for the first year, or as my Grams put it: so Jeff won’t have to buy me anything.

Here is a quote that accurately reflects a) how trousseaus were a symbol of wealth and social standing and b) what I’m sure my Grams thought we were doing at Steinmart:

“The society woman must have one or two velvet dresses which cannot cost less than $500 each. She must possess thousands of dollars worth of laces, in the shape of flounces, to loop up over the skirts of dresses… Walking dresses cost from $50 to $300; ball dresses are frequently imported from Paris at a cost of from $500 to $1,000… There must be traveling dresses in black silk, in pongee, in pique, that range in price from $75 to $175… Evening robes in Swiss muslin, robes in linen for the garden and croquet, dresses for horse races and yacht races, dresses for breakfast and for dinner, dresses for receptions and parties…” from “Lights and Shadows of New York” by James McCabe, 1872.

In 2010, you’ll need a work outfit, a dress outfit, a lounge outfit, pajamas, unders, and bras, per Grams and the state of Alabama.

I love how when I was spending my first Thanksgiving holiday with Jeff and meeting his family, she insisted we go to the outlets to buy a pinstripe pajamas set and coordinated sweat suits for lounging. T-shirt and Nike shorts were not appropriate PJs in Dallas when meeting J’s parents.

On the PJ buying trip, Jeff met Grandma (and all the southern Aunties) for the first time. As a side note, they made us sleep on two separate queen-sized air mattresses next to each other on the porch, with the curtains open and the lights on. We were 29 and 36. We were just getting ready to leave the GAP outlet that day after trying on way too many matching pajamas and sweat suit coordinates. Just before the credit card was swiped, Grams turned sharply to her left, zeroed in on a blue-and-white-striped sweater and yelled with conviction: STOP! She threw her arm out to the left, blocking anyone from passing her or moving ahead. Somebody in my family has to have that shirt. Somebody has to have it. Brookie, go get that shirt. It looks so smart. So fresh. We have to have that. We just have to have it.

Jeff now thinks it’s appropriate at Home Depot to halt in the middle of the aisle and yell: STOP! Somebody in my family has to have that mulch. Somebody has to have it.

I love how even now with limited mobility, medication reactions, and 75 years of accumulated opinions, I can drive the mile to her house at 10pm, and she’ll be up. She’ll rub my back or play with my hair or take off my nail polish and send me home with the bottle. She’ll scroll through 8 programs she’s saved on the DVR for over a year having to do with Belize or New Orleans in case I come over. I love that she offers us a Bloody Mary before my brothers come over.

Despite the silly scars I thought the previously mentioned things would leave—for example, that one Christmas when she called me a puppy, or the moment she looked at my engagement ring and said, Is it plastic? or how sometimes she glances my way and asks if I’m going to put on lipstick because I look dead—somehow in the cake shop that day, all these memories swirled into a uniquely hilarious and lovable Grandma. Soft skin and a soft lap to lay on. Stories we’ll pass around the table with the Classic Cake Grandma plans to will us in the future. The only remaining scar is a tiny little gash above my left eye acquired while running buck-wild around her coffee table on that big house on the tiny lake, back when I was the favorite.

**Submitted for Scribes as a Scar Story

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Cuba (unofficially)

So. We went to Cuba Belize Mexico Belize Cuba Belize. Cuba. (If you’re an immigration officer, I would like to state for the record I oppose the embargo.) That’s how the conversation went in our heads all week, up to and including the nail-biting immigration line at  ATL.  J and I were looking at each other like, You talk? I talk? You? Me? You?

Turns out, nobody cares. They flipped through our passports and stamped without incident. On the other side of customs, J was wired and elated. All I could think about was how much Cuban Rum we could have brought back. And to think we worried about the rolled up stuffed-in-a-corner purple “Industriales” t-shirt we bought from some guy’s plastic bag at the 1pm baseball game. It’s Havana’s team, and current champs- equivalent to the NY Yankees, says J. He knows these things.

But what a rich country! Well, not literally rich. But socially. Sort of. And healthy! Infant mortality is lower than US, and HIV rate is less than .1%.  Architecturally rich. Beautiful. Colorful. Friendly. Inviting. Warm. Historically rich and totally preserved. Also pork-fat rich, which resulted in a day by the pool (read: bathrooms), and special “injections” by some lady named Julia. I think Jeff and Ricardo pretended to be sick the next day just to get a special injection from this Julia. No matter. Rachel and I made several trips to the crepe line, as the crepe maker was, how you say, crepetastic!

Catching a taxi feels like you’re at an antique car auction. Night club dancing with the locals feels like you’re in a black-lit, salsa-and-marengue-with-the-stars episode, where you can make up your own version as long as it involves some hips and twirls and drama. That experience was a fave.

And the mojitos. Don’t even get me started.

There is also a group of men in the square who sit all day and argue about baseball. J heard about this group, and loving baseball and old Cuban men, went to find it. It exists! He listened, talked to a couple people and stood-bye as we witnessed a few near-fights. While we were there, we made a friend who explained that 2 or 3 years ago, nobody could bother tourists. Now they are able to apply for a private license to be an unofficial tour guide in exchange for, like, a mojito. However, there is an officer every 10 feet, and if you say no, and the friend follows you, the officer blows his whistle and shakes his finger. Then the friend has to walk away. Poor friend. Our friend told us how to get out of the city and to the baseball game. He also offered us his aunt’s house for dinner.

The hotel we stayed at was a National Monument, with bullet holes in the front from mob shootouts, and our room faced the Hotel Libre, where Fidel ruled the country from the top floor during such-and-such time frame. Now it’s a disco.

Architecture is a colorful and stoic mix of Eastern Europe, the Caribbean and Latin America. The culture is the same. I kept saying as we walked around Habana Viejo: this looks like the French Quarter! And Prague! And as we walked around Habana Central, with colorful laundry hanging and bright vibrant paint: now this is the Caribbean. And then with the all Spanish and dancing, Latin America. We visited Cuban China-town, took the cigar tour (I neither confirm nor deny that we purchased or smoked a Cuban cigar), went to a Cuban baseball game, ate lunch and dinners on several rooftop bars and in Cuban homes. We discovered this interesting new allowance the government is giving to individuals who apply for private licenses. People who apply can gut the inside of their home, fix it up, and serve meals- but limited to 6 or 12 people only.  Here is a lunch place we stumbled on, plus the house on either side showing the disparity in opportunity:

Within a week of being home, we had purchased and watched Motorcycle Diaries, both Che documentaries, and a 3 hour music documentary on the creation of the Buena Vista Social Club. Also, we also almost got bitch-slapped by my grandma who assumed our enthusiasm toward Cuba (and our realization that many revolutionaries were idealists gone bad, that any government in its ideal state has strengths) was a plug for communism (what?). How she tied Obama into the conversation, I’m not really sure…

We are not socialists. But the trip was fascinating, and we are already planning a return- thanks to good friends who coordinated and visa’d us to be there, and who also had birthdays to celebrate!  (No thanks to Julia for the injections.)

My pics are here.  Jeff’s pics are here.  Here are a couple of tider-overs:






Boonjy

My brother, Benjamin Lee Wilson (known affectionately as Boonjy, or sometimes Boonjermin) turns 21 today! I would write something embarrassing about him, but then my grandma would march out of the kitchen straight to Belize and say, “Nobody talks bad about MY American soldier!” so I’ll leave it at this:

Of all the brothers, Ben always ALWAYS offers his bed when I come home, even if he is on leave from boot camp, and sleeps on the couch. He is also the only brother to call me in Belize with his precious 8 minutes. That was so special. He doesn’t even have a phone!

Cheers Boonjy!

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