Having one car meant that after my dad went to work each morning, my mom was hopelessly marooned in the middle of farm country until his return that evening. In an effort to reduce the inevitable possibility that my mother would fall victim to a raging case of cabin fever or worse that we would completely run out of essentials like groceries and toilet paper since this was long before anything was open twenty four hours, my parents devised an insane yet workable solution. Once a week, my mom would drive my dad to work. She would then take the car and we would spend the next six hours running around like maniacs until she successfully completed every single possible task that one might need a vehicle in order to accomplish. No matter what the day brought, we always finished up in time to be waiting outside my dad's workplace when he strolled out the door at the end of his shift. Of course that is how I remember it, but if you ask my dad, there may have been a few times when we might have arrived just a teensy bit late.
Anyway, at some point, my mom was able to finally adjust to the fact that the nearest supermarket and shopping plaza were over half an hour away. She learned some handy tricks like buying generic items in bulk, freezing emergency dinner rations, and calling on the neighbors for a cup of sugar from time to time. Once our Thursdays were no longer spent in some kind of errand-running frenzy as though we were contestants on one of those timed shopping game shows, the two of us had time for more relaxing ventures. One of the caveats that my family was able to enjoy after fleeing the suburbs of Cleveland was the ability to be closer to my dad's extended family. While my dad's parents went off to seek their fortune in the big city, everyone else was content to stay behind in Pennsylvania. As a result, after morning errands, my mom and I often spent the afternoon with some of my dad's relatives. My personal favorite was paying a visit to the cute little house where my eighty year old great grandparents resided.
While we were there, we would help them out with whatever little things they might need. For Great Grandma that included hair care but, unlike his wife, Great Grandpa was mostly bald, so he didn't require any kind of extensive grooming. As many women grow older, they opt for a shorter more manageable hairstyle than the ones they once wore in their youth. You can witness this firsthand in our family photo albums. My mom's hair starts out being piled on top of her noggin into a cute little bun which disappears shortly after my arrival in favor of a lower maintenance pixie cut. While many women are willing to part with their lovely, long locks after a certain age, my great grandmother was not one of them. She had beautiful, silvery-white hair halfway down her back which she often wore in a crown of braids. My mom would help her wash it and style it each week. It was fascinating to watch except when I was busy gambling with Great Grandpa.
In an odd twist of fate, my great grandmother ended up having only one eye in the latter years of her life. It is a topic that I always find a bit tricky to navigate even among friends. I mean not that having a one-eyed great grandmother comes up all that frequently but still when it does...awkward. The problem is that we all grew so accustomed to it that sometimes we nonchalantly blurt it out forgetting that for most people, this can be rather shocking news to hear. She had some sort of ocular ailment that caused her to lose her eye and rather than having a glass eye or wearing an eye patch, she simply opted to have her eyelid permanently sewn shut. Incidentally, this little nugget of information does little to reduce the initial shock value. In hindsight, I guess it is kind of weird to be so blasé about have a one-eyed great grandmother. She herself was always somewhat worried that she would scare little children, but I never knew her any other way so it didn't make a lick of difference to me. In fact, I was completely fascinated by the fact that her eyelid seemed only lightly closed as though her one eye was just taking a little nap. It seemed to defy physics, because if you have ever tried to lightly close only one of your eyes while keeping the other one open, you will find that it is practically impossible to do without scrunching up the entire other half of your face. I know this because I spent years in front of the bathroom mirror trying to recreate this phenomenon with little to no success.
As for the eye patch, I can see why she didn't go that route. I mean really who do you know who wears an eye patch besides bad guys in movies and pirates? My sweet grandmother hardly belonged with that crowd although she was the type of tough lady that could have held her own among them if need be. Beyond the unsavory company, if for some reason just for kicks you yourself have ever tried on an eye patch, you will know that it creates an impossibly difficult situation when it comes to styling your hair around the unflattering elastic band. Not to mention the complete and total lack of fashionable choices available in the eye patch department. I know this because for a brief period of time in the late 90s, my own mother ended up sporting an eye patch after suffering from a bout of Bell's Palsy. Unwilling to settle for the standard issue patch available in only two options, ecru for unfortunate good guys and midnight black for pirates and baddies, she sat down at her sewing machine and whipped up some more becoming options. It was around the holidays and along with eye patches that were coordinated to her daily outfits, in her collection, you would also find a pudgy little snowman, a jolly Santa, a version in candy cane stripes, a glittery red one, and a green one with a mini white marabou border. Maybe if my great grandmother had had such lovely choices, she too would have opted for the patch.
Anyway, while my mom washed and styled Great Grandma's hair over the kitchen sink, I got to hang out with Great Grandpa in the living room. You could always find him in his special chair and he wasn't always known for his warm and fuzzy demeanor around small children, but for whatever reason, he spoiled me rotten and I absolutely adored him. We often played cards and along with old childhood standards like Solitaire, War, & Go Fish, he made sure to include a variety of other options as well. I mean every four year old should be prepared to play both Blackjack and Po-Ke-No, right? It's no wonder that I eventually became an educator because even back then my rather progressive great grandfather obviously recognized the importance of real world skills.
After Great Grandma's hair was dried and carefully re-coiffed into her signature braided up-do and Great Grandpa and I had placed our final wagers and tallied up our daily winnings, my mom and I jumped back into the trusty Scout and raced clear to the other side of the county just in time to fetch my dad. This weekly Thursday routine would continue until I entered first grade. I attempted to persuade my mom to sign me out of school on Thursdays, but she steadfastly refused. Every Wednesday evening, I pleaded, sobbed, and begged her to let me stay home, but she was a rock. Even then I knew that she was doing what was best for me, but can you blame me for trying? I mean what first grader would choose to spend their day reading about the lives of boring old Dick and Jane when she could be pretending to be at a beauty parlor with her great grandmother, playing dress up with bedazzled eye patches designed especially for the discriminating pirate, or shooting craps with her Great Grandpa before rounding out the day in an off road four wheel drive road rally with her mom in the driver's seat? Seriously, the only thing that Dick and Jane brought to the table were a balloon, a tabby cat, and a little red wagon.
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