Encircle Me

This post is an essay in honor of my grandmother Lydia (Palm) Maynard.

I.

Grandpa died in December 1967, just after I turned three. I remember that day because Grandma zipped my chin into my parka. I can still recall the sting of the metal zipper as it grabbed my skin and the look on Grandma’s face as she struggled to unzip it. It was an odd expression. Normally my robust Grandma would have laughed and joked about her fumbling fingers, but this time she just grimaced and quietly reversed the zipper, sending me on my way, into the damp Seattle afternoon.

Grandpa suffered a massive heart attack while installing linoleum at an isolated house out in the woods. It was a terrible loss, and senseless. He was known for an aversion to doctors, but just one week before his death Grandpa went to the doctor complaining of chest pain and nausea. The doctor failed to diagnose the problem and sent him off to die. He left behind a family in shock, and a wife who was expected by all to wither away. Grandma, however, did no such thing.

II.

The day before Grandpa died, Grandma went shopping at a post-holiday sale at the Bon Marche in downtown Seattle and bought a teddy bear. Not surprisingly, in the tremendous confusion of the ensuing days the bear was forgotten and remained hidden in a shopping bag in her spare bedroom. Then one day, after the funeral, when the world had settled into a slow spin again, Grandma sent one of my uncles over to our house to deliver the bear to me.

With all the simplicity of my age, I named him “Bear Bear,” and in short order Bear Bear became my constant partner in the happy adventures of childhood. He even traveled with the family on vacations – to places like Disneyland, Hawaii, Mexico and Alaska. I left him in a motel room on one trip and he was mailed home by a sympathetic front desk clerk. And with predictability, he also became a pawn in the ongoing skirmishes of sibling rivalry. My big brother once claimed to have flushed him down the toilet, resulting in great hysteria on my part, until Bear Bear was discovered stashed in the cabinet under the bathroom sink with all the toilet paper.

III.

During my super-hero summer, I tied a cape around Bear Bear’s neck, strapped him to the wheelie bar on my banana seat bicycle and raced down the trail through the woods, no I’m not kidding, through the woods to Grandma’s house. We bounced and swerved and jostled our way down the trail and all the while Bear Bear’s red cape rippled in the wind. When we arrived, Grandma and I sat on her front porch and ate salted potato chips from a bag. She acted as if it were absolutely commonplace for a little girl and a stuffed bear in a cape to come tearing up her gravel driveway hollering hello for all the world to hear. Of course, that was Grandma. She took everything in stride. I don’t think anything really surprised Grandma, except maybe Grandpa’s death.

IV.

It was fun to go to Grandma’s house and Bear Bear and I went often. Sometimes Grandma would pile us, my brother too if he were there, into the car and take off through the woods to her favorite greasy spoon where we would eat fried anything and pie.

And always on the way home, she would take the road that went down by the lake and past our little neighborhood community hall. There, Grandma would “four-barrel it!” My brother and I would climb into the back and stand up gripping the front seat of Grandma’s old Ford. She would press her foot down on the gas pedal and send the car surging forward down the straight flat road in front of us. At this, we would throw ourselves backward onto the rear seat and laugh and shout as if we had broken a land speed record. Grandma was quite entertained by the whole affair and would turn the car around and do it again.

I especially enjoyed my sleep overs at her house, when Bear Bear and I would sleep on the couch in the living room and eat “ranch eggs” for breakfast. Yes, when I stayed with Grandma, she and I would comb our hair and straighten our clothes and go to visit her neighbors. We spent our mornings next door at Rosalie’s, where we sat in the kitchen at the back of the house and ate sweet, gooey Danish while the women gossiped and drank coffee.

In the afternoon, we walked across the street to visit Winnie and Sherwood. We would sit out in their big, beautiful backyard, sipping pink lemonade. At least I sipped pink lemonade, I suspect the adults were sipping something a bit stronger. They would play cards, chain smoke, tell silly jokes and laugh. I spent my time playing with Penny, their Great Dane. With my arm thrown over her back we would snake our way in tandem down the length of the redwood deck and back. Penny was taller than I was, and I could just get my arm over her withers. When she turned to look at me, we were eye to eye. I remember once looking into her big round eyes and then looking back at Grandma sitting nearby whose left eye was concealed behind a frosted lens, the result of a stroke. Grandma smiled and reached out encircling me with her strong arms. She held me tight for an instant then let go and patted me on the behind laughing. She wasn’t much for emotion, but I sure knew Grandma loved me.

V.

When I was in college, not long before Grandma passed away from cancer, she presented me one day with a small, rectangular cardboard box. Its top was secured in that familiar way with the dog-eared flaps alternatively folded under and over. Inside I found teacups and saucers. I had never seen them before. These were not ordinary, run-of-the-mill teacups. These were antiques. Each one beautifully painted. Each one a different style and pattern and color. Some with feet, some with ornate gold handles, some quite simple. They were my grandma’s treasures.

At the time I’m afraid I did not fully realize the meaning of this great gift. She had already given me some of her jewelry and her favorite black and white photos of her own teenage years. In retrospect, I see that I was the chosen recipient of Grandma’s most loved objects. That she gave them to me during her lifetime means a great deal to me now. I think she knew, as I have always known, that there was a special bond between us, and that I would one day appreciate and enjoy these treasures as she did. She was right. I do. And I miss her every day. She was the type of person that she would have called a “hoot.” A highball drinking, prawn eating, silly joke telling, endearing woman with a big heart and a strong dose of perseverance.

For more on Lydia please click on the tab "Lydia's Scrapbook" in the gallery of my website.