Leaving the Dance

On the day I was married, my grandmother gave me a fierce hug and covertly pressed a brand new, tightly folded $100 bill into my palm.

“Always carry a little mad money, child,” she whispered into my ear, “You never know when you'll have to leave the dance alone.”

She patted my cheek, gave my long haired, hippie husband a quick embrace, and carefully made her way down the chapel steps, moving slowly but determinedly toward her latest dark blue and immaculately maintained Lincoln Continental. She was a creature of habit and had been driving Lincolns - and trading them in every couple of years - for decades.

“In an uncertain world,” she often told me, “You need a car you can rely on. Besides, people get out of your way pretty quick if you're my age and in a Continental.”

She was in her late sixties by then and had been in what she called “the flower of widowhood” for better than 10 years, living alone and liking it. My grandfather had been a hard drinking, cold-natured, womanizing bear of a man who ruled his family with an iron fist but Nana had stayed with him, neutralized him whenever possible and made the best of a bad situation.

“Mind you, it was my choice to stay,” she reminded me once, “But I don't recommend it.”

By the time my mother had married and produced the three of us, the world had become more than she could bear so it was with relief that she relinquished the better part of my raising to my grandmother. I lived with her off and on throughout my teens, grateful to miss the worst of the alcoholic sieges at home and appreciative of the peace and quiet she provided. Nana's house was stark but expensively furnished, museum-like with muted grays and autumn browns. Dust was not tolerated, bed linens were starched and changed every third day, the furniture was elegantly uncomfortable and anything that couldn't be made neat and organized was made gone.

Clutter was absolutely forbidden whether you could see it or not - my grandmother was a believer in symmetry and simplicity - the kitchen cabinets were routinely emptied, cleaned, and re-organized once a month and even the refrigerator was so clean it glowed. Dishes were washed, dried and put away in one sitting, waste baskets were emptied daily, and even ashtrays were not allowed to collect more than one or two cigarette butts. Search as I might, I never found a closet or cabinet or drawer or shelf that wasn't in precise order. After her death, when I was inventorying the contents of the old house, I realized it had been obsessive but at the time, it was a comfort. As a child, I longed for order and predictability and sameness – they were the same as safety – and Nana could be relied upon for all three.

She was a small woman, and as all the women on that side family did, tended to be stout although compact. She had short, stubby fingers, tiny feet, and snow white hair and never went anywhere un-corseted or without her makeup. She had her hair and nails done every week, always kept three shades of red lipstick on her dressing table, and never went to bed without a nightly beauty ritual. The idea of women in slacks appalled her and she never really got over my mother's summer bare-legged-ness and flip flops.

“It's laziness,” she scolded, “And it's just not ladylike.”

She didn't mind so much when I took up smoking, nicotine was another habit all the women on that side of the family shared, but she was a demon about the etiquette of it.

“Never without asking permission in someone's home,” she said sternly, “Never at a meal unless everyone has finished eating. And never, ever when walking down a street! People will think you're a …...................well, never mind that, it's just not something ladies do.”

“And if you must drink beer,” she added with a scowl, “Use a glass. Nice people simply do not swig from a can or a bottle.”

With her friends, and she had many, she was generous, good-natured, patient and unfailingly well thought of but she held her family to stricter standards and was inclined to be demanding and more than a little domineering. She and my mother fought like stray dogs over a bone when it came to most small things but when it really mattered, she laid down the law in no uncertain terms. She might allow my mother to rant and rave and try to make her case, but in the end, she shut the argument down simply enough.

“My house, my rules,” she would say calmly, “Take it or leave it.”

I learned to fight from my mother but I learned to win from my grandmother.

She loved Ed Sullivan and Red Skelton equally, was a die-hard Rex Sox fan, had a total crush on Liberace, read the Boston Globe for news and wrapped fish in The Herald. She had no use for any politician after Eisenhower, complained fiercely and often about “the coloreds”, made baskets for the orphan's home every Thanksgiving, and preferred Filene's to Jordan Marsh every day of the week and twice on Sundays. She played no instruments, rarely read anything that wasn't a Readers Digest Book of the Month selection, never walked when she could ride and had no hobbies except for crocheting and knitting. She was a cutthroat bridge player and a dedicated and distinguished member of the Eastern Star and the Daughters of Rebeka with a lifelong love of tradition and ceremony. One of the only really serious battles we ever had was over my refusal to stay in Rainbow Girls. It played out at her small kitchen table over warmed up coffee cake spread with softened butter, so sweet it made my teeth hurt, and fresh strawberries in cream.

“It's elitist!” I argued vehemently, “And out of touch! And silly! Secret signs and rituals and nonsense! I don't want any part of it!”

I'd never seen her look more absolutely stricken and to this day, if I could take back just one conversation with her, I think it might be that one. She was flawed and imperfect but she loved me, mostly without conditions, and I should have been kinder.

I was living out of state when she died but made it back for the funeral and spent a couple of nights in her house. I was struck by how little the perfect order of things had changed. I bought a coffee cake and a stick of butter and sat at her kitchen table, careful to wash up when I was finished and leave no crumbs on the red and white tablecloth. I imagined her sitting across from me, smoking a filter tip Kent 100, tapping out saccachrine tablets for her coffee and telling me all the reasons I should be a Rainbow Girl. I took a deep breath and agreed.

And then I left the dance.