Granny Tales part iii

A. Blinken….. When Granny was clearly done telling the story I couldn’t think of anything to say, so after a moment of silence, I turned the recorder off. Tally had crossed her arms on the table and lay her head down soon after Granny started and was fast asleep. To Granny I said, "I never knew you had such strong memories of Ireland." She shrugged, "what do you think the story is about, A.B.? Turn your little recorder thing on again." I pushed "record" and the little red light came on.

Granny: What do you think it was about, A.B.?

A.B.: It was about a girl with seizure disorder.

Granny: Oh? If that’s what it’s about, what’s her name? The poor girl was just a rag doll to be torn apart by fightin’ dogs.

A.B.: Ah. I guess it’s about the superstitions of Ireland in the 1800s.

Granny: Would that be the superstitions of the Church, or the superstitions of the science of the day that held falling down disease to be catching?

A.B.: I give, what’s it about?

Granny: It’s about power, A.B. Did you think I’d spin a windy that long just so’s you’d have a story from the Emerald Isle to tell yer squirmin’ grandkids? It was a long story, it was a big story. It was about the power to create truth, how the truth the law and the church decide on is the truth that justifies the killing and taxing of the common person. Do you reckon the outcome would be the same if the Bishop had fallen down and sprouted blarney? No, there would be nuns and priests there to be sure his head was filled with visions of a Christian heaven, not the cabbage and potatoes that fill the ears and justify the hopes of the scullery. He would have been exalted, and the more majestic and terrible his visions, the more useful he would become. There it is: the church sanctifies its truth, the law has its reasoning, but the justice the poor girl got was not in heaven or the county hall, it was in the chatter of the poor. That enough stories for you?

A.B.: Do you have more?

Granny: Does a gopher fart in his own hole?

A.B.: Ah… Should I wake up Tally?

Granny: Nay. She looks like the kid she is now, doesn’t she? Her pink ear, smooth cheek, nice shiny hair, the little bit of spit dripping from the corner of her mouth to the back of her hand. It’s hideous what the world will do to her in twenty short years, let alone seventy. She’ll wake up and sit right up; if I fell asleep like that I’d have to sit up slow as my arthritis warms up, like a new dragonfly dryin’ out it’s wings.

A.B.: She farts when she sleeps.

Granny: You’re tellin’ me nothin’. I woke up to pee the first night and for a second I thought you were back sleeping here. She’s a good girl, though. You bring out the worst of her.

A.B.: So, even her bad behavior is my fault? How’d I make her give her clam to the town speed freak?

Granny: Hey! She’s a mother now, she doesn’t have a clam, she’s a decent girl again.

A.B.: So, she got pregnant because she was loose, but now that she’s a mother, she’s a virgin again?

Granny: More! Being a virgin is a matter of birth and neglectful cousins. She’s a mother now, her sanctity comes of the generosity of her actions. The first involved the scummy male pig who would snatch the cherry from a silly young girl with an over-heated saint in a boat. For that act she deserves our patient belittlement and fifty Hail-Marys. The second is where she robs her body of supple vitality and ventures to the vale of death to bring a new little kid into the world. The little kid ain’t done nuttin’ bad, and Tally deciding to keep and raise it is a courageous decision and deserves our respect. Forgive me, but you and your Honey haven’t made the decision Tally has.

A.B.: She didn’t really make the decision, she’s just a kid. She doesn’t even really understand that by and by she’ll be big as a Lincoln and then everything will switch from being about her to being about the baby. We’ll see how she does then.

Granny: No, we’ll see how we do then. She’s just a tadpole, and you want her to behave like a thirty-five year old toad? We’ll help her, even you. Helping her will make you love the babby, and welcome it to the family, and give it people and a place in the community. You’ll do that, boy, we both know you will. Stop being such a jealous namby, play nice with your cousin. Stop! Don’t touch that button, just leave it record. I want you to listen to this again. If you don’t put this in your ravings on the website, you’re a piss pants. Hey, Everybody in internet land, A.B. better rise to bein’ an uncle, or we’ll tell the cops he’s growing pot in his chicken house.

A.B. I’m not growing pot in the chicken house!

Granny: No, well wherever it is, they’ll find it. They have a dog now, you know. His smell is a thousand times more powerful than ours, and I understand he sniffs about a bit, too.

A.B.: Tell a story or something, maybe something about you and Great Granddad Aaron Wise.

(silence; the gentle snores of Tally are audible)

Granny: I’ve told you all those stories.

A.B.: No, there’s one you haven’t told. It’s the story we never talked about so many times on the rock by the crick.

(silence; the sound of a shot glass skidding and then plunking on the table; the sound of pouring; pause)

Granny: I won’t tell you about how my Aaron died. I’ll tell you a story, though, but first make coffee. Then we’ll wake sleeping beauty.

A.B.: I’ll pour a little warm water in her ear.

Granny: She’ll leave you looking through a shiner if you do. Look at the size of her hands, she’s got her old man’s bones. She’ll be able to draw a hay wagon when she’s full-grown.

A.B.: (voice withdraws, clattering in the sink) Yeah, you’re right, she’ll probably clean my grill.

Granny: I know she would. Beating up Santa Claus doesn’t make you tough, boy. Don’t forget the girl in the group home who fed you the chewin’ tobaccy. She was about sixteen.

A.B.: (voice distant) Hey, I’ve been working out.

Granny: You’ve got a fighter’s body, like your Granddad Aaron. It’s your heart that’s soft. Tally! Tally, wake up! Tally, you’re droolin’ on your hand and it makes you look like a gaffed carp. Go ahead, boy, get a tablespoon of pee-warm water and pour it in her cockle.

Tally: (groggy) I musta fell asleep.

Granny: Did you know you talk in your sleep?

Tally: (alarmed) I did?

Granny: Yup. You said, "A.B. is the father of my baby."

Tally: (chair scraping) Bullshit. If he was the father of my baby I’d turn it in to the pound. I have to pee.

Granny: Don’t shut the dripping faucet off! The pipes will freeze!

Tally: (voice distant) I remember.

(stove sizzling, water running; close by the sounds of a shot glass scraping, pouring, a bottle plunking on the table.)

Granny: My thumb joint feels like there’s a wood screw in it. I need to grab a barrow hog by the ear to loosen it up a little.

(cups plunking, coffee pouring. Chair scraping.)

A.B.: Did you wash your hands?

Tally: I didn’t touch anything. Want to smell?

Granny: Sit down, A.B. All right, here’s a story that happened one fall about 1937 when Aaron and I tried busting gravel layers out of the hillsides. We were selling nuggets on the black market and getting about 40% over scale. We even smelted and cast a few ingots that year, going to 98 percent pure. Anyway, get settled, A.B., here’s your story:

End of Granny Tales Part iii

Continued in Granny Tales Part iv