In the fall of 1970, my mom took the afternoon off work to run down to the justice of the peace and marry the man who would raise me and my sisters. They moved us out of the Maryland apartment building where we’d been living on the 16th floor for about a year and a half, and into the little Alexandria, Virginia duplex he’d shared with his widowed mom since the late 1950s.

This was not a smooth transition. His mom was not happy with his decision to marry a divorcee with three little girls, especially since this would require her to leave her home and move into a noisy and scary apartment building.  Plus, my mom was bossy. She and Grandma Smith were always at odds with each other. Grandma Smith was called Memaw by all her other grandkids – but we three only called her “Grandma” or “Gram.” I don’t remember really noticing the difference at the time… But now that I think about it, it explains a lot.

At any rate, she had been a perfectly happy housewife raising three kids and living the post-WW2 American dream when her husband suddenly and tragically died in 1957. As I recall, something heavy was dropped onto Grandpa J’s foot, and he ended up dying from a blood clot or something like that. I really should ask one of my aunts for the details again. They’re kind of blurry now. Anyhow, she found herself at the age of 39 a single mom with a teenage son and two young daughters. My dad quit school and went to work to support his family, and Grandma found work at a drycleaners in a neighboring town, putting her significant skills as a seamstress to good use.  

The first time I met Grandma Smith, I remember thinking “Man, she is old.”  I mean, like ancient. And she had a nervous tick that made the corners of her lips move. I was fascinated by that tick. When I spoke to her, I couldn’t not stare at her mouth. Over time, it faded away, but it disappeared without me noticing.  Just one day in my teens, while watching General Hospital with her I realized, Gram didn’t have her tick anymore.  Today, reflecting on my dad’s mom, I realize two things: (1) when I met that old lady, she was five years younger than I am today, and (2) that nervous tick may have started when her life was upended with the death of her beloved husband, but it was surely exacerbated by all the changes that merging my family with hers caused. First she lost her husband. Then she lost her home.  My sisters and I escaped an apartment building, and she was put in one.

That living arrangement did not last for long. At some point, her building caught fire, and while her unit (I believe) was untouched, she truly hated living there. My mom and dad started looking for a house big enough for all of us, and found the perfect place in a much better neighborhood. By the spring of 1972 we were all moving on up.  Each of us girls got our own bedroom and Gram was installed in a mother-in-law’s suite in the basement of the 1940’s single family cape cod my folks purchased. It was the perfect solution. Sort of.