In my family we have a running joke that my grandfather haunts us when we are all
eating together. Inevitably and unconsciously, someone will start channeling him,
saying all the things he used to say. He used to tell us all how to eat -- "Have
some peas. Eat some more of your chicken. Drink some water to wash it down." And
this wasn't just to me and my brother as children, but even to my mother and
uncle. It sounds controlling but actually it came off as funny and concerned,
since he never minded if you didn't do what he said. He just wanted to make sure
we were all nourished, I think.
Last night, though, it wasn't him
haunting me as I got ready to fly out to see my family. As I packed a skirt and
sweater and heels for the synagogue service, another sweater because it's been
cool there, and a dress for the brunch on Sunday, it was my grandmother's voice I
heard. She reminded me to take jewelry and cosmetics. She never thought I wore
enough of either on dressy occasions; I often wondered whether she'd been nagged
in her turn for wearing them, at a time when lipstick and rouge were worn by the
young, the fast or the rebellious. Though I left the house at 4:45 this morning to
come to work because I'm leaving early, I polished my toenails to please her. The
fingernails remain bare; I want to please my grandmother, but I have a lot less
time to worry about such things than she did, at least when I knew her in
retirement.
She wouldn't have minded my not taking nylons, though.
She hated wearing them and spent hours sitting out in a lawnchair, baking her skin
to a soft, brown, wrinkled glove leather, getting her legs an even enough brown to
justify skipping the hose in summer. She'd have been fine with my bare legs,
though she'd have told me I needed more tan.
I packed her pearls to
wear on Saturday. I don't know whose voices we'll hear when we're all together at
her daughter's bat mitzvah, but that reminder of my grandmother will be cool and
smooth around my neck.