As I Recall

When I was young, before I understood politics and social stereotypes, my paternal grandparents lived in a double wide trailer. It was an hour drive from our house. Every other Sunday we would go to church and then to visit and there was always a pot of spaghetti sauce simmering away on the stove. It was my grandpa’s “secret” recipe and was loaded with big chunks of beef and pork and sausage. When we arrived my grandma would start a pot of water to cook the noodles and it seemed like forever before they would be ready. They served the spaghetti with fresh grated parmesan cheese and a simple vinegar and oil salad. I don’t remember the dishes or the silverware or the glasses, but I remember that the table was wooden with a bench on one side and it sat in front of a large window at the front of the trailer overlooking the driveway where my grandpa’s car was parked. It was usually a large sedan like a Crown Victoria or a Grand Marquis and in my mind it is maroon. I wonder now if he always drove a Ford, like I remember, or if my memory is skewed because my dad always drove a Ford. Perhaps it was a Chevy or a Buick.

The carpet was green (I remember it as green, but on this detail I am fuzzy) and the couch was covered in orange and brown flowers. There was a grandfather clock in the corner and a fire place surrounded by fake bricks that when turned on radiated heat and flashed a fake orange flame. My grandma had lamps that turned on when you touched them. I thought that was really fascinating and would run my child hands over the lamp as lightly as possible to see how sensitive it was. The lamp was gold.

In the back room, there was a globe on a stand and a portrait of Jack and Bobby Kennedy on the wall. The portrait stands out in my mind (and my cousins as several were talking about it at the funeral a few weeks ago). I remember staring at it. I didn’t really know much about Jack Kennedy except that he had been President and that he had the same name as my dad. I knew nothing of Bobby Kennedy. The portrait said JFK and RFK and had their birth and death dates. I would stare at these dates and the images of their faces, these men who meant nothing to me but with my adult knowledge, I understand their impact on the American political landscape. I know so much more of these men now and it is fascinating to me how your adult knowledge can overlay your childhood memories like tracing paper. I recently attempted to find a print of this painting on the vast expanse that is the internet, but it was nowhere to be found. Strange, I would have thought it would have been abundant on ebay and the like. If I had not spoken of it with my family, I would be questioning myself if it had actually existed other than in my head.

I don’t remember the bathroom, although I’m sure I used it.

Across the street was a steep hill and a field with only utility poles and power lines. I used to play out there with my cousins if any of them happened to be there on the same day. Sometimes it was just my parents, brothers and me. And later, just my parents and me. I remember myself in girly dresses with ruffles and knit tights, but maybe my mom brought a change of clothes for me because I don’t see myself in a dress rolling down the hill.

Inside, the tv was always on. It was nothing I was interested in because I don’t remember what was on it. My grandpa would put the remote in his pocket so no one could change the channel. There was a plaque on the shelf that said, “May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows your dead”. I didn’t understand what that meant and my mom had to explain it to me. The plaque had a green shamrock on it (My grandpa was Italian, but my grandma was Irish)

On Easter, the kitchen table would hold an Easter basket full of chocolate, and dyed hard boiled eggs and jelly beans and chewy sugary pieces shaped like lambs and chicks all on a bed of purple or green plastic grass. Was there a Christmas tree at Christmas? We never went on actual Christmas, the family was too large and the trailer too small so we always went to my aunt and uncles house instead. My memories don’t include a Christmas tree.

We would eat and visit and then load up into the car to drive the hour back home. And I would lounge in the backseat, my dress flopping every which way (and very unladylike), with my tights drooping at the crotch and my shoes discarded on the floor, the dark cloud of school the next morning hanging over my head not knowing what important memories these visits would turn out to be later in my life, not ever thinking of a day when both my grandparents would be gone, not ever thinking about politics or religion or old Irish Blessings, not ever thinking that I should pay closer attention to the bathroom in my grandparents trailer.

This was one visit and every visit. Later, they moved out of the trailer, I think I was already away at college and my visits had become less and less frequent. My grandpa started dementia. He got lost driving around in his car and they had to take it away from him. Then he went into a nursing home and then he died. I was in my last year of college. I don’t remember ever eating the spaghetti anywhere but the trailer, and in fact, I’m quite sure that my memory is accurate on that point. She lived from then until just a few weeks ago, by herself, in the condo they had moved to, still making her own meals and her own bed. But, of course, they live on in their 7 children and their children and their children’s children and in stories like this.