November Writing Challenge: Childhood Memories: Lapless Grandma

My maternal grandmother retains the moniker 'Lapless Grandma' in my mind.

I have no idea how that came about, or when, or by whom, but I know why. You see, I come from a long line of fat women, and Grandma was very fat. She was fairly short, perhaps 5'2" or so, and when she sat down her big round lower belly (we are of the two-bellied species of fat women) spilled over the tops of her short thighs at least half way to her knees. So, there was no lap to sit upon: Lapless Grandma. To sit on her lap, you had to kind of half sit, half lean on her knee, as if you were actually sitting on her lap, and just lean into her soft curves and folds of flesh. She smelled familiar, like my own skin, and she was warm. Always in a dress and her wavy short dark hard brushed neatly, the Old Country still lingered on her. Her mother had emigrated to the States from Naples, and homemade pasta was still made on the linoleum-topped, metal-legged kitchen table in her Newark railroad car apartment above the corner grocery store in the Italian neighborhood. The metal pasta roller machine was always attached, awaiting the next batch of dough.

Images of her apartment linger in my memory: a black and white tv in the living room, which was in the rear of the building. We accessed her apartment via wooden stairs not much more sturdy than a fire escape, that ran up the back of the two story brick building. The backyard was concrete, with little spits of grass revolting up through the cracks. And she had a dog, a Beagle. I still love Beagles. Down the street was the community swimming pool with a concrete bottom and a shallow end and a deep end, where my sister and I would play in our ruffled bikinis in the sweltering inner city heat of the summer. I remember thinking how cool it is to know this woman: she is the mother of my mother! Isn't that interesting how that all works? When Mommy was a little girl, Grandma took care of her and fed her and raised her just like Mommy is doing for me. So curious!

I remember our trips to visit Grandma in Newark, the drive west on Route 22 from Plainfield always exciting and interesting to me. Even as a small child I loved a good road trip. I knew we were starting to get close when we reached the ball-topped water tower with the city name 'Union' on it. "The Water Ball, The Water Ball" I would exclaim from the back seat of our square-shaped royal blue Plymouth station wagon with the fold down seat in the 'way back'. I never ceased to be amazed and comforted by this site. The Water Ball was like a special friend to me, we had a connection, we knew each other, he would recognize me waving from the back seat of the station wagon, and send his energy of solidity and purpose to me. The highway would be split by this point, with a middle section between each direction that contained gas stations and convenient stores and the triangle shaped pizza shop that we would sometimes stop at for slices of Sicilian pizza. Sicily was the part of Italy that the boot was kicking away, I was told, but we made an exception in our tribal allegiances for a slice of good Sicilian pizza pie.

I knew we were even closer to Grandma's when we would change highways, and the road would dip down, with the city would be up on the hills on either side of the road. We'd go under bridges that were regular city roads crossing over the highway that was dug down in a trench of concrete. Then up out of the trench, and we would pass a sprawling cemetery, where Grandma would eventually be buried. Our family was still small then, just the four of us: Mommy, Daddy, Chrissy and Me.

There was a time when Grandma came to live with us. I don't really know why, I was too young to understand such things, and the family stories remain disjointed and unclear in the telling and in my memory. But what I do remember is Saturday mornings. Mommy and Daddy would sleep in, and Chrissy and me would get up to watch Saturday morning cartoons and kid shows: The Bugalloos and HR Puff N Stuff and Scooby Doo and Wonderama, and Soul Train at Noon to finish the set. When Grandma lived with us, she would be up early, and she would help us get breakfast. We kept the cereal in the cabinet above the deep rust colored stove in the kitchen. It was too high for Grandma to reach, and instead of going into the pantry and pulling out the step stool, she would get the hinged wooden salad tongs, and use them to extend her reach to pull down the box of Cheerios or Cap'N Crunch. To this day, I use tongs to get things out of the tops of the cabinets that I can't reach. You never know what small thing you may do that will affect a child in your sphere of influence. I always think of Grandma when I do that.

I didn't know Grandma long. She died when I was 5. She was 56 years old. I've been told different things about the cause of her death, and I honestly can't keep it all straight: complications with diabetes, maybe pneumonia. Possibly a broken heart, or lingering resentment and anger from being left by her husband with three young girls. I'm not really sure, but I know there was a lack of health on several layers: mind, body, spirit that keep her life short. As the eldest of my sisters and cousins, I'm the one that got the most years with her from our generation. But even with just a few short years of her in my life, her memory is deep in me, her spirit touched me, and my body, although a smaller version, is a reflection of hers: soft curves and folds of flesh in triplicate, emanating warmth and ready to take a loved on in my embrace, and this time, with room on my lap for a child.  Ann Degisi, descendant of the Rossi family of Naples: my Lapless Grandma