Summer Stock

Pity, my grandmother remarked, without dropping a stitch, that you can't shut up your relations in a closet, like preserves. Her knitting needles clacked steadily and she occasionally adjusted the afghan with a sharp flip of her elbow. Aunt Vi and Aunt Pearl nodded in agreement, Ayha, they both said at once with small, discreet smiles. Nana was in what my daddy used to call a "snit" and the sisters knew better than to contradict her. My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face tight with anger. And what exactly is that supposed to mean, she demanded. It means, my grandmother said calmly, precisely what I said. My mother stalked back into the kitchen and with a clatter began washing the breakfast dishes. Nana glared at her knitting and sighed. Among other things, she said clearly, preserves don't eavesdrop. There was a curse from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the old cast iron skillet being flung against the wall, and then the slam of the back door. From the sunporch I could hear the dogs barking at the sound of an engine and the spray of gravel as my mother drove off and up the driveway. She surely does favor a dramatic exit, I heard Aunt Pearl say quietly and my grandmother and Aunt Vi agreed in unison, Ayha.

This little drama, or some re-mastered version of it, played itself out repeatedly among the women on my mother's side of the family. Casting continually changed - sometimes you were an extra or had a small cameo part, other times you were the lead but the dialogue was constant and reliable - recriminations, accusations, cheap shots and blame until finally one of the players left the stage. Relationships built on alcoholism and conflict are painfully predictable and as I got older I began to wonder if it was generational - had my grandmother and her mother been at each other's throats as she and my mother were, as my mother and I were? Was there some competitive and twisted strand of DNA that was present and actively at work? There was no one left to ask.

All storms, even those made up of hurricane force winds, blow over eventually, and that night my mother returned by the time supper was on the table. She was disheveled and tipsy, a little unsteady on her feet, and she climbed the stairs to her room using all her tricks to be quiet. Nana pointedly ignored her, telling me, There will be great weeping but it's just for effect, and then suggested a game of dominoes. The next morning, my mother was haggard and apologetic but my grandmother wasn't buying and by lunch the cold and fragile courtesy between them was gone, both were white faced and stiff with anger. Neither would concede, compromise or yield a single inch of ground and they each made a point of avoiding the other. It seemed silly to me at the time, and I couldn't help but think of two, old and battle scarred tomcats, circling each other, spitting and hissing until they launched at each other and became a whirling, howling centrifuge of teeth and claws, refusing to let go until someone doused them with a bucket of cold water.

We are all - at least in part - the best and worst of where we come from.