“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.” – Emily Dickinson
Baptized Mary Katherine Crawford, my maternal grandmother Mimi was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. She lived most of her adult life in Michigan after marrying my grandfather, but she never lost her southern accent. Or charm. Or that great cooking gene that I did not inherit. When you came to her house she was not happy unless you were eating. Breakfast always included biscuits and gravy. From scratch. You smelled the pies cooling coming up the street.
In grade school I wrote her a book of poetry. I remember tying together the pieces of paper into a hand made tome and penciling the title on the cover: Mimi Beanie Bellie-Beenie (chocolate cake or ice cream-eenie?). Dear woman, she was never not kind. We children absolutely adored her. As the first grandchild on both sides…well, let’s just say I was a little spoiled. I credit having had four grandparents around as my salvation. Hind sight being what it is, I have no doubt they all did their best to be a positive influence. They had to be watching my parents descent into addiction with horror. And they didn’t see the half of it.
When you are my age and you discuss your lifelong depression with your doctor at your yearly Medicare physical (they have to ask), they recommend therapy. And so, I gratefully have a weekly session via Zoom. I love my “care manager.” I’ve always said that I have to be in therapy to cope with all the people in my life who aren’t in therapy. Long ago I’d confide my frustrations to Mimi more than anyone else in my young life. She would say, “you’re alright, kid. The world’s all wrong.” Hooo boy, she was not just whistlin’ dixie…
She had a funny way of talking that I attributed to being from the south. If you asked her a question and she didn’t know the answer she would respond, “I am not knowing.” I was still in grade school when she was diagnosed with uterine cancer and told she had about six months to live. I certainly don’t remember any of that ordeal. I know she went through surgery, chemo and radiation, but I was entirely unaware of her suffering. She lived another lifetime again, into her 80’s – before the cancer would finally take her. When asked about it, she would simply state that she would rather die than go through that treatment again. I’ve heard that said by almost everyone I’ve loved now, myself being one of the lucky few who hasn’t had to face that demon.
What makes one person luckier than the others around them? Of the seven members of my biological family I am the only one to escape the long evil tendrils of substance addiction, of cancer or heart failure, of crushing depression. At 70 I haven’t had cancer or heart problems, knock on wood. In spite of scoring 8 out of 10 on the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (no to #6), I manage depression, I am functional, and sane. I am fairly happy most of the time. The simple pleasures of my days far outweigh the occasional difficulties. I am truly blessed and highly favored. But I do look back and long for a deeper life, a more authentic connection. I wish I’d known more of what I didn’t know, at least how to ask the questions I wish I’d known to ask. What was that like for you, Dad? What do you really want, Mimi? What would you do differently now, Mom?
My grandfathers were building railroad tracks in Detroit and across the country during the boom of the automobile industry, and my father inherited that business. But he was a frustrated artist. When my parents 27 year marriage broke up after raising 5 children together, my father would come out to us all and confide that he had always been living a double life as a gay man. He never had a choice back then. Neither did he have the choice to be a musician instead of a contractor. It wasn’t gonna pay the bills. My mother’s choices were even fewer.
Like most middle class parents in the 1950’s post war economic boom, they sheltered we children from any hardships we accidentally caught glimpses of. We didn’t watch the news. We watched Ed Sullivan; he had a really big shoe. They made up stories about where people and pets had gone when we were confused by their absence. If Mimi had bad days during cancer treatment we certainly didn’t see them.
Our every physical whim was met with all the food and comfort and luxury my parents could possibly provide. Music and merriment were abundant. Holidays were exaggerated celebrations always full of people and gifts and singing and dancing and games. I remember asking why we needed so many televisions and record players; there was one in almost every room. Some nights they were all going at once. Our house was full and loud and chaotic. We had a somewhat tongue-in-cheek saying in our household: “life is a party.”
But some precious opportunity was lost in my parents’ utopia. Something is always lost in any falsely contrived utopia. It manages to keep life humming along quite superficially, and it tends to create the side effect of anxiety. Especially when eventually faced with any challenge and realizing that reality wasn’t so real. There’s a reason they say ignorance is bliss, and it’s because awareness is painful. Growing up is hard to do.
That said, it’s the only dance in town. There is no way out but through. If there is any more meaningful reason for being here, now, well…I am not knowing.
A Painterly Home 