Mammy and Pappy, Captain Bill, Grammer
#5 Mammy and Pappy
Like most kids, my early identity was shaped first by my family, and I was (and still am) fortunate to have my grandparents in my life. Growing up, I spent the most time with my mom's parents, Mammy and Pappy, who lived four hours north through the Smoky Mountains in Nashville, Tennessee. From what I recall, they made the drive down to visit us a few times a year, but other than the boring church services, I don't remember much. What I do remember, though, is loading the trunk of the car with presents, getting stuck on icy stretches of highway, and spending Christmas at The North Pole...
I can still see their house perfectly--red brick with black shutters--and I remember the rush of the sled runs down the driveway and into the yard. I remember playing catch in the snow with my dad, uncle and Pappy, and I can still see the sign on the red front door: "Santa, Please Stop Here!" Inside, I can see the ceramic rooster on the island in the kitchen, as well as Pappy climbing the ladder to put the star on top of the tree. I can hear my mom and aunt and Mammy breaking into "O Come All Ye Faithful" while cooking, and I can barely make out the faint ringing of sleigh bells outside on Christmas Eve...
I will especially never forget the year that Santa himself came to the door, handed out gifts with a "Ho! Ho! Ho!"...and almost forgot me. Mammy got it all on video, which I haven't seen in many years, and at the end of all the excitement--after everyone's gotten their gifts and my dad has used his new nose-hair trimmer--Santa gets ready to leave and Mammy impatiently clears her throat. The camera turns to me, then, as I'm hiding behind my mom, who asks, "Santa, do you have anything for a little boy named Collin?" Santa's bag appears to be empty, which makes me worry I hadn't been good, but then he digs around and exclaims that yes, indeed, there is one more present. When he pulls out the Power Ranger action figure that had been number one on my wish list, I accept it with a smile that is pure, innocent magic. And then in a flash--before Santa's gone--I sprint away to go play, and when Pappy got back from the drug store, I told him who he'd missed..
What I'll always cherish the most, though, from those snowy weekends in Nashville, is waking up before everyone else on the mornings leading up to Christmas. As the first light came in through the blinds, I'd put on my robe and Grinch slippers, sit at the top of the stairs, and wait for footsteps to cross the kitchen below. Then Mammy would appear at the bottom of the steps and invite me down for breakfast, and her, Pappy, and I--with matching bed-head and tired eyes--would eat Corn Pops at the kitchen table while Pappy read the paper. The comics always went straight to me while Pappy skipped to the Sports section, and one day I spotted a story about the Braves and wanted to know what it said. So Mammy, having been a teacher and the leader of an adult literacy program, brought out her trusty chalkboard and the reading lessons began: "Hat, Bat, Ball...Let's Go Braves!...Come on, Mammy--a tough one!" Immediately, I was hooked.
Thus, my passion for words and language was formed at a young age, and though I have all of my family to thank for this, I give the earliest credit to Mammy, who also taught me how to play tennis, ping-pong, and pickleball, and always jumped into my square to help me out when we played four-square. Pappy, for his part (he also holds a teaching degree), helped me through high school algebra and gave me the lifelong gift of golf. He was also a regular source of advice--a man of Faith, full of wisdom--and the respect that he equally gave and earned has left a vital impression on me...
More than any literal lesson, though, that they've taught me between the two of them, it's been their constant example of character that I thank them for the most. From humble West Virginia roots to a custom-built house on a golf course, their self-made success and 55-year marriage is a continual inspiration. When posed with a difficult moral dilemma, I often ask myself, "What would Mammy or Pappy do?," which has never once led me astray--and doubtless never will. In a nation and world where selfishness rules and compassion is considered a weakness, the Tennants are a shining example for me that success can be had with kindness.
#6 Captain Bill
Usually on the Saturday before Christmas, my parents and I made the journey south to Fayetteville, Georgia, where my dad's dad, who I named Captain Bill, built himself a big ol' house in the countryside. A stark contrast to Mammy and Pappy's "traditional" home, Captain Bill's house--from the Texas Lone Star on the mailbox to the faded-red "Rebel Run Ranch" sign on the iron gate at the entrance--gave the distinct, immediate impression that the owner was his own man...
I remember swinging open the heavy gate and then running ahead down the gravel driveway, where Captain Bill's dogs, Pete and Jake--who Captain Bill saved from the side of the road and believed were part-coyote--would happily announce our arrival with a harmony of howls. For being pretty much wild, they were sweet at heart and just wanted to play, which makes for a decent description of my grandfather--and myself...
After helping unload the presents, then, I'd lead the way through the glass front door; under the colorful, wooden ducks hanging from the rustic beams in the ceiling; past the jackal-ope, deer, and bear heads wearing Santa hats on the wall; and over to the Christmas tree in the corner with the fake rattlesnake wrapped around it. Then I'd follow my dad to the living room, where my great-grandparents, MamaLee and PapaLee, would be waiting on the couch to give me a hug, which left me smelling like Elizabeth Taylor perfume mixed with musky, Brut aftershave. Then I'd politely sit through their questioning--"How's school? How's soccer? How 'bout them Braves?"--while trying not to fixate on 1) their yellow teeth, 2) the weird tie-thing around PapaLee's neck that my dad said guys in Texas wear, and 3) Mamalee's periwinkle perm, which made her look like an old Marge Simpson. I remember the way my dad talked to them--the only time he ever said, "Ma'am" or "Sir"--and when they gave me my present early so they could hit the road before nightfall, I knew to pretend like the Happy Meal toy was the coolest thing in the world. Looking back, I wish that I'd talked to them more--the stories they could've shared!--but as it was, I couldn't get past the smells and bailed at the first opportunity...
The next stop was the kitchen, then, where JanJan--Captain Bill's third wife--greeted me with an orange soda, poured my mom and dad a margarita, and cracked the oven to show us what smelled so good. Instead of traditional Christmas meats, however, like Honeybaked Ham or turkey, Captain Bill--always needing to be different--made weird stuff like "Turducken," which is a chicken stuffed in a duck's ass that is then stuffed into a turkey. For this, I mostly just ate the sides--collards, baked beans, mac and cheese--and slipped the rest to Jake and Pete, at my feet under the table...
At this point, having said my hello's to JanJan's side of the family, I'd get this feeling--something like "Spidey Sense"--that somebody was behind me...and then right on cue, a spit-soaked finger would dig into my ear, and the man they named the "Wet Willy" after would follow it up with a wedgie. Then he'd laugh and laugh with those crooked teeth and squinty eyes like mine as I dried my ear with my shirt-sleeve and pulled my underwear out of my butt-crack. "Captain Bill!" I'd yell, red in the face--part embarrassment, part anger. "You know I hate when you do that! Why are you so mean!" This, of course, only made him laugh more--a man who lived to make people react--and the rest of the day, I'd watch my back when Captain Bill was around. If I could summarize my grandfather in one word, it would be "bully," and I feel like most of the people who knew him would probably agree...
After eating, we'd head to the living room and I'd take my place on the fireplace hearth as Captain Bill played Santa Claus and handed out all the presents. Unlike Mammy and Pappy's house, where we took turns opening one at the time, Captain Bill's was a free-for-all and the fun was over in minutes. With wrapping paper, boxes, and bags covering the floor, Captain Bill would announce, "All right, that's it--Merry Christmas! Is everyone happy?" I'd politely smile like socks and sweaters and a change-counting machine were exactly what I'd wanted, and as the thank you's went around the room, I'd pretend to not feel gypped. But then Captain Bill would say, "Wait a minute--what's this?" and when he walked into his bedroom, all eyes would turn to me. "I don't believe it!" he'd shout back to us. "It looks like Santa stopped here early!" My face would light up and my dad would give me a push to run and see what it was...
"The Big One," as I came to call it, got bigger every year, and every time I walked into that room, I couldn't believe my eyes. The first year I can remember, it was a battery-powered four-wheeler, and the next year it was roller blades with a ramp built by Santa's elves. Next came a sick, off-road skateboard with all-terrain tires and straps for your feet, followed by a blue BMX bike and a gas-scooter that went way too fast. Then, when the Playstation 2 came out and everybody went crazy for it, Captain Bill paid my cousin, I think, to stand in line and buy me one. Eventually, as I got older and wanted really expensive things, The Big One became an envelope with a few hundred-dollar bills inside. Sure, this was slightly less exciting, but the sentiment was the same, and I felt like it sort of made up for all the wedgies and Wet Willy's...
The last thing that I remember from all those Christmases at Captain Bill's is sneaking into his office while the grown-ups sipped bourbon and egg-nog. I remember his desk was always covered with papers, binders, and manuscripts, and in the corner--on a little table draped with a bobcat skin, head and all--was a shadowbox about three inches deep that housed his knife collection. I could never decide which was the best since all of them were different, and sometimes Captain Bill would come in and remind me what each was made from: "This handle here is a polar bear tooth, and this one's carved out of whale bone...and this switch-blade here with the silver plating--I smuggled that back from Mexico." Mixed in, as well, were a few antiques, like his grandma's rusty revolver, and in the middle of it all were the stars and medals that his dad--a colonel in the Air Force--earned as a B-52 pilot during World War II and Vietnam. Furthermore, on the shelf under the table rested a row of old books I was scared to touch, including a first-edition Tom Sawyer (Mark Twain was his favorite writer) and a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, signed by Harper Lee. As a kid, I really just looked at the knives, but now the rest seems more impressive, and I'm proud to display the shadowbox on my nightstand at Home today...
What I'm not proud of, however, is the way my grandfather lived his life: for all his Christmas-time generosity, he was an asshole the rest of the year. Yes, he was mostly good to me (notwithstanding the wedgies), but as I got older, I started to feel like he was just trying to make up for his past. From what I gather, he was a shitty father, an habitual cheater, and an arrogant prick: a selfish man who took full advantage of people and situations. Over the years, he started to figure it out, but Karma did catch up to him, which is ironic because his last gift to me was a Buddha necklace...
That said, I did love him and am thankful for what he taught me--for his example of how not to be, as well as his writing advice and encouragement. For all his character flaws and deficiencies, deep down I think he was Good, and I'm sure that the mass of people who came to his funeral would attest to this. But even so, I can't be sure--and really, who am I to judge?: if there's anything Captain Bill taught me, it's "Live your own life--and own it." This, for me, is his legacy--a mentality that I share--and while I know that he would be proud of me, I hate that I can't say the same for him...
#7 Grammer
And then there's Grammer--my dad's mom: the polar opposite of Captain Bill--to whom I owe almost every opportunity I've had in my life. From my soccer career to my straightened teeth to my college education and travels abroad, I simply wouldn't be who or where I am today if not for her...
Of all my grandparents, I saw Grammer the least since she always lived far away--first in Houston, then Kansas City, and finally Morristown, New Jersey--but she made a point of coming down to Georgia at least once a year, and on every major holiday, there was a card for me in the mailbox...
I remember the house in New Jersey best--a skinny, four-story town-home--and when I was old enough to fly alone, she bought me a ticket to come up and visit. The house always smelled of cleaning products--of wood polish and potpourri--and the vacuum lines in the carpet helped me putt golf balls into plastic cups. I remember the small back porch, too, with the jungle of herbs and ferns, and the little neighborhood playground in the courtyard a few steps away. I can still see the old rocking chair--her mother's, from Missouri--and the floral-print couch with the plastic cover, where we hardly ever sat...
My favorite room was the basement since it was almost totally empty apart from Grammer's treadmill and the tiny TV she only watched when she ran. I'd play soccer down there for hours, kicking the ball against the wall as much as I wanted, and sometimes Grammer would join and play goalie to make it more fun. When I got tired, we'd open the dusty trunk that looked like a pirate's treasure chest and play with my dad's favorite toys from when he was a little boy. I always pretended that I was him as I lined up the G.I. Joe's for battle, and I thought that his old Millennium Falcon from the seventies was the coolest...
For lunch, Grammer made grilled-cheese--always burned on both sides--and a bowl of tomato soup with fresh tomatoes from the garden. When she made pizza--also from scratch--the smoke alarm always went off, but I thought it tasted good anyway--just not as good as Chuck E. Cheese's. We ate a ton of vegetables, too, since Grammer is a vegetarian (years in the poultry industry understandably turned her off); as a kid, it was kind of weird that I loved broccoli, spinach, and kale, and the way that Grammer cooked it all up, I couldn't get enough...
Today it's about the same whenever I spend the weekend with Grammer, who, after a long career in the propane business, retired a few years ago. Finally back in Georgia now--in a waterfront condo on Lake Lanier--Grammer spends her days cleaning and reading The New Yorker. We still like to putt golf balls into plastic cups in the living room, and thanks to the advent of cooking shows, the smoke alarm doesn't go off as much. We watch a lot of soccer, too (Grammer's a huge Arsenal fan), and at night, while eating veggie pizza, we watch Globe Trekker for trip ideas...
This last part--the thirst for travel: an insatiable desire to see the world--is what Grammer and I share that our other family members don't; our idea of a vacation is getting "out there" as much as possible, while my dad and brothers would much prefer a cruise where you never leave the boat. When I studied abroad in Costa Rica--which Grammer foot the bill for--she flew down with the rest of the family at the semester's end to visit me...and was the only one who enjoyed our stay at the eco-lodge in the jungle, never once complaining about the rain or bugs or humidity. For this, Grammer and I make a pretty much perfect travel team, with two epic trips behind us and many more planned for the future. We've successfully conquered Spain, where she paid for me to study Spanish, and last year, with a five-day cruise through the Galapagos Islands, we crossed off number one on both of our bucket lists...
But even more than our love for travel, our similarities go even deeper as Grammer and I are both introverts who appreciate time alone. Her independence--she took a solo trip to Kenya for a safari!--has inspired me to be self-reliant and embark on adventures that others won't. Furthermore, she was the one who introduced me to Ernest Hemingway, whose short stories made me decide that I wanted to be a writer. And it was also her who loaned me a copy of Ayn Rand's The Virtue of Selfishness, which influenced me--as it influenced Grammer--in enormously powerful ways...
Which brings me, in an ironic sense, to Grammer's most impressive trait: her selflessness and enduring will to put others before herself. For all her personal success in an industry dominated by men, she never once thought of spending that hard-earned money on what she wanted. No, instead of buying a big ol' house or a fancy car or clothes, she lived well-below her means for years while driving a Honda CR-V. That money, in turn--and without a second thought--went to me, paying for soccer trips, braces, medical bills, and my education. Because of this, I find it impossible to express my tremendous gratitude, which, as I've gotten older, has evolved into admiration. And considering her past and all the shit she went through with Captain Bill, I feel that she quite literally might qualify for sainthood...
With that, I'd like to remember a promise I made to Grammer years ago--way before the thought of being a writer had crossed my mind--when I told her that after my first game as a full-blown professional soccer player, I'd start my post-game interview with a wave and a "Hi Grammer!" As it is, I didn't quite have what it takes to make it as a footballer, but here I am, writing a book, which I hope will make you just as proud. Again, there are no words to express how deeply I feel indebted to you, so all I can say is thank you, I love you, too, and where are we traveling next?
Like most kids, my early identity was shaped first by my family, and I was (and still am) fortunate to have my grandparents in my life. Growing up, I spent the most time with my mom's parents, Mammy and Pappy, who lived four hours north through the Smoky Mountains in Nashville, Tennessee. From what I recall, they made the drive down to visit us a few times a year, but other than the boring church services, I don't remember much. What I do remember, though, is loading the trunk of the car with presents, getting stuck on icy stretches of highway, and spending Christmas at The North Pole...
I can still see their house perfectly--red brick with black shutters--and I remember the rush of the sled runs down the driveway and into the yard. I remember playing catch in the snow with my dad, uncle and Pappy, and I can still see the sign on the red front door: "Santa, Please Stop Here!" Inside, I can see the ceramic rooster on the island in the kitchen, as well as Pappy climbing the ladder to put the star on top of the tree. I can hear my mom and aunt and Mammy breaking into "O Come All Ye Faithful" while cooking, and I can barely make out the faint ringing of sleigh bells outside on Christmas Eve...
I will especially never forget the year that Santa himself came to the door, handed out gifts with a "Ho! Ho! Ho!"...and almost forgot me. Mammy got it all on video, which I haven't seen in many years, and at the end of all the excitement--after everyone's gotten their gifts and my dad has used his new nose-hair trimmer--Santa gets ready to leave and Mammy impatiently clears her throat. The camera turns to me, then, as I'm hiding behind my mom, who asks, "Santa, do you have anything for a little boy named Collin?" Santa's bag appears to be empty, which makes me worry I hadn't been good, but then he digs around and exclaims that yes, indeed, there is one more present. When he pulls out the Power Ranger action figure that had been number one on my wish list, I accept it with a smile that is pure, innocent magic. And then in a flash--before Santa's gone--I sprint away to go play, and when Pappy got back from the drug store, I told him who he'd missed..
What I'll always cherish the most, though, from those snowy weekends in Nashville, is waking up before everyone else on the mornings leading up to Christmas. As the first light came in through the blinds, I'd put on my robe and Grinch slippers, sit at the top of the stairs, and wait for footsteps to cross the kitchen below. Then Mammy would appear at the bottom of the steps and invite me down for breakfast, and her, Pappy, and I--with matching bed-head and tired eyes--would eat Corn Pops at the kitchen table while Pappy read the paper. The comics always went straight to me while Pappy skipped to the Sports section, and one day I spotted a story about the Braves and wanted to know what it said. So Mammy, having been a teacher and the leader of an adult literacy program, brought out her trusty chalkboard and the reading lessons began: "Hat, Bat, Ball...Let's Go Braves!...Come on, Mammy--a tough one!" Immediately, I was hooked.
Thus, my passion for words and language was formed at a young age, and though I have all of my family to thank for this, I give the earliest credit to Mammy, who also taught me how to play tennis, ping-pong, and pickleball, and always jumped into my square to help me out when we played four-square. Pappy, for his part (he also holds a teaching degree), helped me through high school algebra and gave me the lifelong gift of golf. He was also a regular source of advice--a man of Faith, full of wisdom--and the respect that he equally gave and earned has left a vital impression on me...
More than any literal lesson, though, that they've taught me between the two of them, it's been their constant example of character that I thank them for the most. From humble West Virginia roots to a custom-built house on a golf course, their self-made success and 55-year marriage is a continual inspiration. When posed with a difficult moral dilemma, I often ask myself, "What would Mammy or Pappy do?," which has never once led me astray--and doubtless never will. In a nation and world where selfishness rules and compassion is considered a weakness, the Tennants are a shining example for me that success can be had with kindness.
#6 Captain Bill
Usually on the Saturday before Christmas, my parents and I made the journey south to Fayetteville, Georgia, where my dad's dad, who I named Captain Bill, built himself a big ol' house in the countryside. A stark contrast to Mammy and Pappy's "traditional" home, Captain Bill's house--from the Texas Lone Star on the mailbox to the faded-red "Rebel Run Ranch" sign on the iron gate at the entrance--gave the distinct, immediate impression that the owner was his own man...
I remember swinging open the heavy gate and then running ahead down the gravel driveway, where Captain Bill's dogs, Pete and Jake--who Captain Bill saved from the side of the road and believed were part-coyote--would happily announce our arrival with a harmony of howls. For being pretty much wild, they were sweet at heart and just wanted to play, which makes for a decent description of my grandfather--and myself...
After helping unload the presents, then, I'd lead the way through the glass front door; under the colorful, wooden ducks hanging from the rustic beams in the ceiling; past the jackal-ope, deer, and bear heads wearing Santa hats on the wall; and over to the Christmas tree in the corner with the fake rattlesnake wrapped around it. Then I'd follow my dad to the living room, where my great-grandparents, MamaLee and PapaLee, would be waiting on the couch to give me a hug, which left me smelling like Elizabeth Taylor perfume mixed with musky, Brut aftershave. Then I'd politely sit through their questioning--"How's school? How's soccer? How 'bout them Braves?"--while trying not to fixate on 1) their yellow teeth, 2) the weird tie-thing around PapaLee's neck that my dad said guys in Texas wear, and 3) Mamalee's periwinkle perm, which made her look like an old Marge Simpson. I remember the way my dad talked to them--the only time he ever said, "Ma'am" or "Sir"--and when they gave me my present early so they could hit the road before nightfall, I knew to pretend like the Happy Meal toy was the coolest thing in the world. Looking back, I wish that I'd talked to them more--the stories they could've shared!--but as it was, I couldn't get past the smells and bailed at the first opportunity...
The next stop was the kitchen, then, where JanJan--Captain Bill's third wife--greeted me with an orange soda, poured my mom and dad a margarita, and cracked the oven to show us what smelled so good. Instead of traditional Christmas meats, however, like Honeybaked Ham or turkey, Captain Bill--always needing to be different--made weird stuff like "Turducken," which is a chicken stuffed in a duck's ass that is then stuffed into a turkey. For this, I mostly just ate the sides--collards, baked beans, mac and cheese--and slipped the rest to Jake and Pete, at my feet under the table...
At this point, having said my hello's to JanJan's side of the family, I'd get this feeling--something like "Spidey Sense"--that somebody was behind me...and then right on cue, a spit-soaked finger would dig into my ear, and the man they named the "Wet Willy" after would follow it up with a wedgie. Then he'd laugh and laugh with those crooked teeth and squinty eyes like mine as I dried my ear with my shirt-sleeve and pulled my underwear out of my butt-crack. "Captain Bill!" I'd yell, red in the face--part embarrassment, part anger. "You know I hate when you do that! Why are you so mean!" This, of course, only made him laugh more--a man who lived to make people react--and the rest of the day, I'd watch my back when Captain Bill was around. If I could summarize my grandfather in one word, it would be "bully," and I feel like most of the people who knew him would probably agree...
After eating, we'd head to the living room and I'd take my place on the fireplace hearth as Captain Bill played Santa Claus and handed out all the presents. Unlike Mammy and Pappy's house, where we took turns opening one at the time, Captain Bill's was a free-for-all and the fun was over in minutes. With wrapping paper, boxes, and bags covering the floor, Captain Bill would announce, "All right, that's it--Merry Christmas! Is everyone happy?" I'd politely smile like socks and sweaters and a change-counting machine were exactly what I'd wanted, and as the thank you's went around the room, I'd pretend to not feel gypped. But then Captain Bill would say, "Wait a minute--what's this?" and when he walked into his bedroom, all eyes would turn to me. "I don't believe it!" he'd shout back to us. "It looks like Santa stopped here early!" My face would light up and my dad would give me a push to run and see what it was...
"The Big One," as I came to call it, got bigger every year, and every time I walked into that room, I couldn't believe my eyes. The first year I can remember, it was a battery-powered four-wheeler, and the next year it was roller blades with a ramp built by Santa's elves. Next came a sick, off-road skateboard with all-terrain tires and straps for your feet, followed by a blue BMX bike and a gas-scooter that went way too fast. Then, when the Playstation 2 came out and everybody went crazy for it, Captain Bill paid my cousin, I think, to stand in line and buy me one. Eventually, as I got older and wanted really expensive things, The Big One became an envelope with a few hundred-dollar bills inside. Sure, this was slightly less exciting, but the sentiment was the same, and I felt like it sort of made up for all the wedgies and Wet Willy's...
The last thing that I remember from all those Christmases at Captain Bill's is sneaking into his office while the grown-ups sipped bourbon and egg-nog. I remember his desk was always covered with papers, binders, and manuscripts, and in the corner--on a little table draped with a bobcat skin, head and all--was a shadowbox about three inches deep that housed his knife collection. I could never decide which was the best since all of them were different, and sometimes Captain Bill would come in and remind me what each was made from: "This handle here is a polar bear tooth, and this one's carved out of whale bone...and this switch-blade here with the silver plating--I smuggled that back from Mexico." Mixed in, as well, were a few antiques, like his grandma's rusty revolver, and in the middle of it all were the stars and medals that his dad--a colonel in the Air Force--earned as a B-52 pilot during World War II and Vietnam. Furthermore, on the shelf under the table rested a row of old books I was scared to touch, including a first-edition Tom Sawyer (Mark Twain was his favorite writer) and a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, signed by Harper Lee. As a kid, I really just looked at the knives, but now the rest seems more impressive, and I'm proud to display the shadowbox on my nightstand at Home today...
What I'm not proud of, however, is the way my grandfather lived his life: for all his Christmas-time generosity, he was an asshole the rest of the year. Yes, he was mostly good to me (notwithstanding the wedgies), but as I got older, I started to feel like he was just trying to make up for his past. From what I gather, he was a shitty father, an habitual cheater, and an arrogant prick: a selfish man who took full advantage of people and situations. Over the years, he started to figure it out, but Karma did catch up to him, which is ironic because his last gift to me was a Buddha necklace...
That said, I did love him and am thankful for what he taught me--for his example of how not to be, as well as his writing advice and encouragement. For all his character flaws and deficiencies, deep down I think he was Good, and I'm sure that the mass of people who came to his funeral would attest to this. But even so, I can't be sure--and really, who am I to judge?: if there's anything Captain Bill taught me, it's "Live your own life--and own it." This, for me, is his legacy--a mentality that I share--and while I know that he would be proud of me, I hate that I can't say the same for him...
#7 Grammer
And then there's Grammer--my dad's mom: the polar opposite of Captain Bill--to whom I owe almost every opportunity I've had in my life. From my soccer career to my straightened teeth to my college education and travels abroad, I simply wouldn't be who or where I am today if not for her...
Of all my grandparents, I saw Grammer the least since she always lived far away--first in Houston, then Kansas City, and finally Morristown, New Jersey--but she made a point of coming down to Georgia at least once a year, and on every major holiday, there was a card for me in the mailbox...
I remember the house in New Jersey best--a skinny, four-story town-home--and when I was old enough to fly alone, she bought me a ticket to come up and visit. The house always smelled of cleaning products--of wood polish and potpourri--and the vacuum lines in the carpet helped me putt golf balls into plastic cups. I remember the small back porch, too, with the jungle of herbs and ferns, and the little neighborhood playground in the courtyard a few steps away. I can still see the old rocking chair--her mother's, from Missouri--and the floral-print couch with the plastic cover, where we hardly ever sat...
My favorite room was the basement since it was almost totally empty apart from Grammer's treadmill and the tiny TV she only watched when she ran. I'd play soccer down there for hours, kicking the ball against the wall as much as I wanted, and sometimes Grammer would join and play goalie to make it more fun. When I got tired, we'd open the dusty trunk that looked like a pirate's treasure chest and play with my dad's favorite toys from when he was a little boy. I always pretended that I was him as I lined up the G.I. Joe's for battle, and I thought that his old Millennium Falcon from the seventies was the coolest...
For lunch, Grammer made grilled-cheese--always burned on both sides--and a bowl of tomato soup with fresh tomatoes from the garden. When she made pizza--also from scratch--the smoke alarm always went off, but I thought it tasted good anyway--just not as good as Chuck E. Cheese's. We ate a ton of vegetables, too, since Grammer is a vegetarian (years in the poultry industry understandably turned her off); as a kid, it was kind of weird that I loved broccoli, spinach, and kale, and the way that Grammer cooked it all up, I couldn't get enough...
Today it's about the same whenever I spend the weekend with Grammer, who, after a long career in the propane business, retired a few years ago. Finally back in Georgia now--in a waterfront condo on Lake Lanier--Grammer spends her days cleaning and reading The New Yorker. We still like to putt golf balls into plastic cups in the living room, and thanks to the advent of cooking shows, the smoke alarm doesn't go off as much. We watch a lot of soccer, too (Grammer's a huge Arsenal fan), and at night, while eating veggie pizza, we watch Globe Trekker for trip ideas...
This last part--the thirst for travel: an insatiable desire to see the world--is what Grammer and I share that our other family members don't; our idea of a vacation is getting "out there" as much as possible, while my dad and brothers would much prefer a cruise where you never leave the boat. When I studied abroad in Costa Rica--which Grammer foot the bill for--she flew down with the rest of the family at the semester's end to visit me...and was the only one who enjoyed our stay at the eco-lodge in the jungle, never once complaining about the rain or bugs or humidity. For this, Grammer and I make a pretty much perfect travel team, with two epic trips behind us and many more planned for the future. We've successfully conquered Spain, where she paid for me to study Spanish, and last year, with a five-day cruise through the Galapagos Islands, we crossed off number one on both of our bucket lists...
But even more than our love for travel, our similarities go even deeper as Grammer and I are both introverts who appreciate time alone. Her independence--she took a solo trip to Kenya for a safari!--has inspired me to be self-reliant and embark on adventures that others won't. Furthermore, she was the one who introduced me to Ernest Hemingway, whose short stories made me decide that I wanted to be a writer. And it was also her who loaned me a copy of Ayn Rand's The Virtue of Selfishness, which influenced me--as it influenced Grammer--in enormously powerful ways...
Which brings me, in an ironic sense, to Grammer's most impressive trait: her selflessness and enduring will to put others before herself. For all her personal success in an industry dominated by men, she never once thought of spending that hard-earned money on what she wanted. No, instead of buying a big ol' house or a fancy car or clothes, she lived well-below her means for years while driving a Honda CR-V. That money, in turn--and without a second thought--went to me, paying for soccer trips, braces, medical bills, and my education. Because of this, I find it impossible to express my tremendous gratitude, which, as I've gotten older, has evolved into admiration. And considering her past and all the shit she went through with Captain Bill, I feel that she quite literally might qualify for sainthood...
With that, I'd like to remember a promise I made to Grammer years ago--way before the thought of being a writer had crossed my mind--when I told her that after my first game as a full-blown professional soccer player, I'd start my post-game interview with a wave and a "Hi Grammer!" As it is, I didn't quite have what it takes to make it as a footballer, but here I am, writing a book, which I hope will make you just as proud. Again, there are no words to express how deeply I feel indebted to you, so all I can say is thank you, I love you, too, and where are we traveling next?
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