Trivial Pursuits: Pieces of Polly

Grandparents Day was Sunday, and I was fortunate to be able to talk to my one remaining grandparent, my paternal grandmother, Polly, on the phone that day.

For one reason or another, grandmothers often get left out of the Mother’s Day mix. Maybe we think we celebrated them enough before their kids had kids. Maybe we’re simply saving up our granny gratitude until Grandparents Day. Or maybe you do what I do: mail a card with XXX’s and OOO’s from your own offspring. (Why do we tend to delegate the greeting card duties to our kids as soon as they can write their names, anyway?)

I am blessed that my own grandmother, Viola (better known as Polly, except by her checkbook), is healthy and surrounded by family that adore her. At 86, Polly is a sassy, selfless, chatty, and charming Southern gal – a little plump, and a lot of loveable. 

My family all have our own pieces of Polly. To me, she’s Me-Mommy, an expert cook, yard sale hostess, country bunny crafter, and purveyor of silly sayings like, “Well, if that don’t beat a billy goat,” (“No way”) and “You’d best straighten up and fly right” (“Knock it off”). And since I was a child, she’s had a near-perfect read on me. Better than anyone, Polly knows that that when I get moody, I probably need to eat.

Though we’ve lived states away most of my life, she has been right by my side for the past 37 years. Me-Mommy helped care for me as an infant while my mother was bedridden with back pain, attended my tap and piano recitals, and stayed over every Christmas Eve so she and Paw-Paw could see my brother and I open gifts. When I was a teenager, she put me up for two summers so I could intern at the local newspaper. When I was a struggling college student, she often surprised me with an extra car payment in the mail. And, to this day, she has never judged me for my mistakes.

My family all have our own Polly memories, too. She showed me the fun in punching holes in jar lids to catch lightning bugs on summer nights and the funny in Hee-Haw. She taught me to loom potholders and brown a pan of cornbread to perfection. I thought she was my guardian angel and Methiole could cure anything. 

I was Me-Mommy’s crafting buddy. After rolling through Wal-Mart for fabric and such, we’d paint T-shirts, loom potholders, and sew and stuff country-looking rabbits and floppy dolls with flower dresses and crooked features. Invariably we’d end up at McDonald’s, where I blended Dr. Pepper floats while Me-Mommy and Paw-Paw chit-chatted with the other senior citizens.

My dad and aunt grew up on Campbell Street and, in a sense, so did I. Most of my memories of Polly’s house sound insignificant – standing over the floor furnace in the hall with my nightgown billowing like Marilyn Monroe’s. Watching reruns of Golden Girls and Momma’s Family. Finding an old square dancing dress in the attic and asking Me-Mommy to alter it so I could be Alice in Wonderland for a dress-up contest. Sitting in lawn chairs and collecting money during yard sales. Sitting on lawn chairs on Main Street to watch the Strawberry Festival. Silly Me-Mommy sayings, like “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” (I always thought she made that up, but I recently realized it’s a line from the musical Guys and Dolls). Road trips to Chicago and Florida. The time we were following Me-Mommy and Paw-Paw to Pensacola, and Paw-Paw went through a traffic light without waiting for my dad to catch up. A cell phone certainly would have helped keep my dad’s blood pressure in check the next six hours. The time Me-Mommy and Paw-Paw picked up at Nova, just a few days after my cousin died, when I said I had a sore throat and wanted to go home. Waking up at my house on Butternut Cove on Christmas morning to find two extra Santa Clauses (who had spent the night on the pull-out couch) to watch my brother and I open presents. Getting money from Me-Mommy and running down the hill to the gas station to buy a Yoo-Hoo.

Then, there was Hendersonville – summer passes to Opryland, where we watched endless shows with George Jones and Minnie Pearl impersonators for entertainment. Going to thrift stores (or, in Me-Mommy lingo, “second-time arounds”), and jamborees (old-people dances, where I was the youngest person by a good 40 years). Later, after they moved back to Humboldt, they let me live here two summers so I could intern at The Chronicle. I might not be working as a writer today if it weren’t for that.

Polly – my Me-Mommy – has one of the most generous spirits I have ever known. She exudes all of the qualities I can only hope to emulate one day, and it’s to her that I dedicate this Grandparents Day tribute.