I was blessed with four Grandmas; I’m not sure they would have said the same.  Maternal and paternal grandmothers, as well as maternal great grandmothers.

 

The first crisis was with Great Grandmother Brewster.  She and my Great Grandfather had a little store and gas station, across the highway from their rural home.  It was the social center of the community.  I remember a family gathering at the store one weekend when I was three or four.  As I toddled by, Grandma snatched me from behind, gave me a bristly kiss; sat me in her lap and held me prisoner.  I was startled, scared, and didn’t know for a while who had grabbed me.

 

I squirmed to escape and a power struggle developed.  She was bigger and stronger, so I had to improvise.  I knew better than to bite, but was tempted.  From where we sat I saw through a window to the gas pumps.  Hansel and Gretel were a recent and fresh source of inspiration; the rest was history.  I told her that if she did not let me go I would pour gas on her and set her afire.  The gambit worked and I was set free.  I took refuge in the salt blocks next to the animal feed and veterinary supplies in the back of the store.

 

The first hint of trouble was a tearful conference I observed from my sanctuary.   Mom and Grandma Thelma were huddled around a tearful Great Grandma.  Mom came and drug me over to the Grandmas by the scruff of the neck; a token gesture of punishment.  Great Grandma had cultivated an audience by then and was inconsolable.  Resolution came in the form of a hasty retreat home.  Our relationship was forever clouded by the incident.

 

A few years later we were visiting Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Fred, who lived nearby.  Great Grandma called on the phone.  She had just shot a deer she had discovered in her vegetable garden and wanted my Uncle Kenny to dress it and hang it in the barn.  Kenny was out for the afternoon in his new car pursuing the elusive scents of gasoline, perfume, and pheromones.  Grandma Thelma sent me to do the job.

 

When I arrived Great Grandma closely supervised.  I was a little nervous because she used her old rifle, with the flashlight taped to the barrel; as a baton to direct my work.  My labors apparently met with approval since I was fed peach pie and milk before being dismissed.

 

About 20 years later, when she was in her 90’s the properties that abutted hers had built up and Great Grandma had new neighbors.  City people.  They called the Sheriff on her for shooting another deer out of her garden, next to their house.  He came out and confiscated her rifle.  She never understood.  That garden had produced an abundance of venison and vegetables for 60 to 70 years.

 

Great Grandma Frazer was older, her husband rode in the Rough Riders with Teddy Roosevelt.  By the time I came along she was in her mid 80’s and soon lived with Grandma Marion and Grandpa Herb.

 

She was my first cribbage master, and ruthless; she gleefully pegged all the count and score I missed.

 

My only other memorable moment with her was over breakfast.

 

I had taken the bus up to Salem, Oregon; by myself, to stay with my grandparents and earn my fortune picking strawberries.  I was twelve years old.  One Saturday morning when my grandparents were out of town.  She decided to cook me bacon and eggs after the morning peace had been shattered by a cherry bomb my uncle John and his buddy Jay had thrown in my bed with me.

 

I think Great Grandma was trying to re-establish the peace while keeping a protective eye on me.  By that age I had developed a keen sense for surreptitious adult supervision and my hackles were up.  John and Jay were gone and all I wanted to do was hunt for cherry bombs.

 

She asked me how many eggs, and how much bacon, I wanted.  I told her one egg and six pieces of bacon.  Never before had I been offered a blank check!  After I placed my order she paused, scowled at me over her glasses and announced I would have TWO pieces of bacon.  Good thing I didn’t ask for coffee.  Obviously I failed the test of character.

 

Grandma Marion had infinite patience… with grandchildren.  Dad, and his siblings have led me to believe that she kept them on a much shorter lead.

 

She and Grandpa Herb made sure all the grandkids got a new, high quality winter coat, every Christmas.

 

I remember foraging through her kitchen one time and encountering booby traps set specifically for me.  The first was a bar of Hershey’s Chocolate.  A giant bar that must have weighed a pound.  One bite did the trick, how did she make so bitter?  How did she know to poison that piece of candy?  What if somebody else had gotten it?  She knew what I was going to do and set the trap for ME!  At that time of my life I perceived all chocolate was the same, I had never heard of semi-sweet cooking chocolate.

 

The next trap was olive oil.  All the kids in my family loved black olives and the brine they were packed in.  In her pantry I found a tin of Italian olive oil, obviously the expensive good stuff.  Oil… brine; in my mind there was no difference.  I took a big swig of the Italian oil and barely got it spit back in the can without spraying it all over the pantry.  Reminded me of the oil, or some other crud, Grandpa Herb had in a coke bottle in the garage.

 

She was a mind reader, a formidable adversary!  How could she have the clairvoyance to booby trap the first two things I would sample in her pantry?  No telling what other poisons awaited me in that larder.  I never again dared eat anything in her kitchen that was not served me.

 

Grandma Marion was my second cribbage master.  She actually taught me some strategy before beating me in the dirt.  She also helped me count and score.

 

Grandma Thelma was an absolute saint.  Her capacity for forgiveness was unlimited.  She also took us fishing and camping.

 

She let us bring our BB guns whenever we came to her house, despite the fact we shot everything.  The only things off limits were pets, chickens, livestock, kids, cars, and windows.  If one of Grandpa’s yard cars had previously damaged glass, it was fair game.

 

I always had a vague impression she had bigger, more destructive weapons available for us where the yard cars were concerned.

 

We cut trees and made log cabins in the woods next to her house; no power saws allowed.  She always worried about us.

 

I accidentally blew her up one time and she never said a word to me or my parents about the matter.

 

I had a windfall of high quality cherry bombs the summer I was twelve.  Not long after I had returned home from Oregon my parents decided they needed to get away for the weekend.

 

For some unknown reason my mother frequently suffered a rather severe nervous condition.  It often manifested after one of my adventures.

 

Grandma Thelma was enlisted to baby sit the four of us.  I was the oldest of four boys at 12, Phil was 10, David was 8, and Tracy was 3.

 

I had been waiting for the right opportunity to try a cherry bomb on Phil.  Saturday morning, after Mom & Dad left, looked like a good time.  I  established a simple ambush from the grape arbor, above the back door.  After a very long wait I heard the door open to the back porch from the kitchen.

 

I struck the match and counted… one thousand… two thousand… and lit the fuse.  The back door opened… three thousand; the fuse was burning fast so I let go.  Out stepped… GRANDMA!

 

I knew I was dead.  I decided it was best to take my lumps while she was still concussed.  Her disorientation might work to my advantage.

 

I could not find her.  All the kids were watching cartoons on TV.  She was gone.  Then I heard her VW.  I looked out the front window in time to see her drive down to the end of the street and turn toward home, two hours away.

 

Monday morning Mom & Dad got home and asked where was Grandma?  I told them that she… just left.  I awaited my doom for the rest of the day, the week, then month.  The axe never fell.  She never spoke of the incident, and died many years later with our secret intact.  I sent her flowers on every Mother’s Day.

 

I dearly loved my Grandma’s.  I can only hope that they knew it.