The Grandmothers of Christmas, Chapter One
Grandmother and the Putt Putt you’re Dead Incident
My sister, my son and I took a road trip after my first stint in college which I needed badly. Lisa, who took care of my son whilst I was in school, Matthew, who was barely five years old and I would live on the road for a few weeks. We were all excited for the adventure.
We borrowed a friends’ 1965 Sunshine yellow VW camper van. It had a sink, frig and pop up top for sleeping in comfort. Many exciting things happened on this trip. I will leave all but one of those stories for another time. Since it is almost Christmas and grandmothers play an important role in our Christmas theology (I’ll bet you didn’t know that) I want to tell you about the Grandmother and the Putt Putt You’re Dead Incident, as I have come to call it. And as you might guess, my Grandmother is the star of the story.
My Grandmother had her standards and cleanliness was right below her dedication to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Upon our arrival in Phoenix she greeted us warmly as grandmas do… hugs, kisses the like. And then the silent battle was on to sneak our bug infested, camping clothes from our suitcases to the laundry to be sterilized. According to Grandmother there was nothing that a healthy dose of Lysol could not solve. She would have us stringently clean, ship shape and ready for our date with Grandfather in no time. The Putt Putt course near the downtown core of Phoenix was our rendezvous point where we would meet Grandfather for his ritual Putt Putt game with Matthew. We were excited to do something in the city after camping for a week
Although she was able to get Matthew and his Whinny the Pooh in the bath rather quickly, my sister Lisa and I knew that the second we stepped into the shower she would descend like a spider on it’s prey and scoop up our clothes from our suitcases for a good soak in the Lysol. Who wants to smell like eau de Lysol? It felt so violating and not very sexy. So we stood our posts.
It looked as if we would not get the chance to shower because the woman never left the house. So we went in shifts. Lisa showered and I stood lookout and then visa versa. By evening Grandmother had conceded loss at least for that day and gone on the defensive. She emerged from her room dressed in fresh clothes… reeking of Lysol, a double dose no doubt. If she couldn’t get those germs off of us she would at least arm herself. Off we went for a night of fun and leisure.
As we approached the putt-putt golf course it was evident that this place had changed drastically since the last time we were there. Tantalizing bright lights overwhelmed the dark night. The full city block that the entertainment complex now occupied was replete with all kinds of video arcades and snack bars which were packed to capacity with what we would later discover to be rival gangs. The crowd pulsed tensely yet methodically with the beats of the music.
My sister and I were some what intimidated and wondered if Grandmother knew what was going on. As we were not quite the only white faces in the crowd our presence had created quite a tension among the girls. We knew we had walked into an unstable situation that we could not understand much less navigate safely. A group of girls began to enclose us while we stood on the street corner. One young lady, at least six feet tall, leaned in, “You need to get the f*** out of here now unless you want to get hurt.” It felt aggressive and yet she could have just been warning us, we couldn’t tell.
We suspected the worst. Lisa and I edged Matthew’s little body between us. He could feel the tension too. A circle of defiant and angry bodies began to close in around our small but short grouping.It became obvious that they were not our friends. When did teenagers start growing so tall? The lights of the arcade were now all but blocked out, we were in a dark place on many levels.
In the midst of that tension my 70 year-old Grandmother asserted her little self armed with her boldness and her lysol. Dressed in her sensible shoes, her peach polyester skirt and her ruffled ecru blouse, and reeking of Lysol. She stepped between us and our nemesis. “ Now that’s not very nice. Someone had better apologize or leave… right now,” she demanded.
As we trembled behind our bold Grandmother we wanted to shout, “Yeah… yeah, you, you big bully!” But we didn’t, we decided to allow her the limelight. And if they punched her, well, we’d be there to catch her before she hit the ground.
But to our utter surprise, tall girl got that deer in the headlights look. She seemed struck speechless by Grandmother, all 5 foot 1 inch of her. Maybe it was Grandmother’s tone, she was known for that. Or maybe it was the lysol, it was known to have repellant properties. Or perhaps the girl had her own grandmother and she knew that you never cross a Grandmother. She began to back away. Before long the crowd had dissipated and we were on our way to meet Grandfather, no worse for the wear.
Putt Putt golf was exotic under the bright lights in the warm balmy Phoenix night with Grandfather, a tall man with warm friendly eyes. We felt safe with him. And Matthew, again, slaughtered Grandfather at Putt Putt Golf. Grandfather escorted us out through the crowds with a twinkle in his eye, a twinkle that I am just now beginning to understand as I grandparent Alabama and Haley, my granddaughters. Was he as oblivious to the danger that was around us as Grandmother was? We will never know, as the event has not been spoken of since that day except in my journal and Grandfather is long gone.
Did Grandmother ever get what really happened that night? Did she know that she saved us from beatings or worse? Did she know that these girls most likely were carrying an arsenal of weapons between them? Did she know that these girls eat cream puffs like my sister and I for breakfast? I don’t know…
But she did understand one thing. She understood that a Grandmother has authority in her voice. She understood that children no matter what their age or socio/economic status hear the voice of a Grandmother. She assumed that she could speak to the higher ground in human beings and get a positive response. She understood that she could hold her ground and people would respect her. And she was fearless, utterly fearless! She knew that lysol had magic powers. And if those things were all she knew, well it was good enough for me.
Moral of the Story:
Grandmothers are important, very important! Often a grandmother’s voice is more easily heard than a peer’s, a mother’s or a father’s. Grandmothers bring something important to the table. They prophesy to us who we are and who we can be on many levels and they create a pathway for us to become. My sister and I are both named after our grandmother and we are both like her in many ways. By their mere presence Grandmothers assure us that all is well and will be well if we just keep moving forward. We need grandmothers! So it is no wonder to me that the Bible recognizes the importance of Grandmothers. Four are mentioned in the book of Matthew. My friend and mentor Ray Bakke calls them the Grandmothers of Christmas. We will talk about them next time.
So stay tuned for Chapter Two: The Grandmothers of Christmas or Well-behaved women rarely make history, especially in the Bible.