The Edge of the Miseries

My great grandmother, a wisp of a woman with hair in a neat bun and wire spectacles, was far less fragile than she looked. She was already old when I knew her and moved slowly, taking care with each step and relying on an old wooden cane to steady herself. Mother! my exasperated grandmother would exclaim when she discovered her carrying wood to the stove or removing the breakfast dishes, I can do that! And my great grandmother would raise her cane in a warning gesture - I ain't no invalid, Alice, she would snap, And I don't need no caterin' to! I was totin' and carryin' fore you was born! Nana would protest this uselessly with huge sighs of frustration and unheeded pleas of But Mother, what if you fall again? At this, the snap would usually turn to a bitter snarl - the old woman hated being reminded of her old bones, Then I'm guessin' I'll be breakin' another damn hip but I ain't gonna fall again if you git out of my way!

Three women, all under one roof and each stubborn, strong willed and with a mile wide feisty streak, spelled disaster. Each fancied themselves in charge, none liked taking orders, all three were determined to rule the roost. Spats and quarrels seemed to break out hourly and it was impossible to please one without displeasing the other two. Having no wish to be caught between a wife and a mother in law, menfolk commonly made themselves scarce during these summer days, children learned early to stay out from underfoot and even the dogs found sunspots far away from the conflicts. The kitchen was the most common battleground - sunshine streamed through every window and salt air blew through the back door on each perfect summer day - and the women bickered over how long to bake biscuits, how much wood to add to the stove, which apron belonged to who, how the broom had come to be misplaced, how much sugar to add to the lemonade, who had not folded the dish towel properly. I learned that if you're bound and determined to provoke an argument, nothing is too small to be overlooked, no nit too small to pick.

For Christ's sweet sake, my grandfather, a boorish and ill tempered brute of a man, would thunder, It's like living in a goddam chicken yard! The women would cringe slightly and lower their voices, continuing their quarreling in harsh whispers but accommodating the old man's fury with a bitter shame. You don't want me to have settle this! he would shout, a poorly veiled warning and they would skulk away like children caught with hands in the cookie jar. Our's was a house, as my great grandmother once told me, always on the edge of the miseries.