"I've got a past student here who would like to walk over the grounds to take a few pictures?"
(Static)
"Negative."
Grandma: "You have got to be kidding."
Security: "Lady, it's not the same school that it was in 1947."
My grandma grew up in Chicago. I have grown up hearing about her taking the "el" and working as an operator for the telephone company during the war when the adults were siphoned off for other jobs. For me, looking through her Proviso Township High School annual is right up there with brown paper packages tied up with string. The writing is earnest and the fashion is tops. There is a picture of my grandma and a bunch of other young women out in the field for archery, and whenever I pause to inspect it she points out that they were supposed to wear a certain color of shorts that day, but she was feeling rebellious, and so is the only one in the picture wearing dark shorts.
She's the only one looking at the camera and the wind is blowing her hair across her face.
"All right kiddo -- do you have it?" She was squeezed into the back seat between my kids perched in their boosters that they have to sit in until they're 15. She laughed and made us all laugh with her quips every time we loaded in or out of the car. My uncle was designated navigator and I white-knuckled the steering wheel (I was sad for many reasons that The Dad flew home at 5am, but it did provide a role/space for my uncle -- and for that I am grateful).
The school is not the same as it was in 1947 -- there is a more modern, less attractive addition and the students that were wandering in did not look like extras in My Three Sons. (Inasmuch as I wasn't impressed with them, they weren't with me. They looked at me like I was a loooo-zer when I took a picture of the front of the building. Oh, yeah, because I took pictures. And so did Grandma. After talking to the security guy all friendly-like for a bit we made like we were going to walk back to the car, but bobbed and weaved until we were somewhat satisfied. Dude, you do not tell the gal that wore the dark shorts on light-shorts day that she can't take pictures.) But 65 years later, a lot is still there. Seeing the architectural details that haven't changed is like the bell in The Polar Express -- tangible proof that it all really happened.
Our next stop was the cemetery (on Madison) where some aunts and uncles of my grandma and her and brother who died in his 40's never married, are buried. Although very close to him, circumstances were such that she had never been back to see his tombstone. After a bit of searching (and turning the plot map provided by the cemetery office first one way, and then another) The Girl found the stone. Again with the tangible proof.
"This is the neighborhood where you lived with the gypsy neighbors and the live bear? A story that I still don't believe." My uncle.
"What the what?" Me.
"Oh good night. You're never going to let me live this down. Yes, there was a family of gypsies who kept a live bear in the basement -- a great big thing. They would bring him out to a lot and wrestle with him." Grandma.
"Did you actually see this?" Me.
"I saw the bear once. I didn't pay to watch the wrestling. Eventually the smell was so bad people complained and their landlord kicked them out. My brother used to run around with a few of the kids, but Mother always watched them like hawks when they came into the house because she thought they would take stuff. They were known for that, you know." Grandma.
"Um?" Me.
This was the house (Lathrop). This is where my grandma and her family lived during WWII. Down the street was some property donated to be a golf course, with the stipulation that it always be used for community entertainment/recreation. Apparently torpedo manufacturing fit the bill, as a plant went in there during the war. My grandma was one of many youth in the neighborhood who wore a necklace with a little torpedo on it.
In a social studies book that my kids have been reading (to earn money via Cash Car that Clunks) there are sections on neighborhoods, communities, and family history. I hope they realize how cool it is that there is a story of a wrestling bear in their family history -- because one lived in their great grandma's neighborhood... in a community where there was a torpedo factory.
Once we pried Grandma out of the car for the last time, we went back to my uncle's and walked around the little downtown area. Grandma bought the kids a bag of candy to eat on our trip to St. Louis. All these individually wrapped candies that very much reminded me of the candy that she used to put in a glass dish in my room when I would visit. My uncle was painting the back of the house.
(I went out:
"Oh, you're painting it pink?"
"No, it's French Beige."
"Ah."
"It can't be pink -- nobody paints their house pink." So subtle like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers.
Out walks Grandma: "Oh. You're painting it pink.")
We played Rummy. I used to play Rummy with Grandma whenever we went on trips together.
I love my uncle. He is funny and smart and I'm so grateful that I've finally met him. He does indeed seem to not be motivated by human interaction (read: we forced our activities and conversation on him). Big Sister was eagerly awaiting a report, and the only thing I could think to text that was a big enough compliment while also being truthful: "We have our own Boo Radley." Between that and the bear this family has gone WAY up.
My uncle is a life-long learner, taking classes in diverse things like metal working and scientific drawing (The Girl liked a bird sketch). Further, he has shown my kids that you can think about your answer before spewing forth words --- this economy of language is both refreshing, and often is powerfully funny. He exists. These are the gifts he has left so far for my Scout and Jem.
