There’s this saying that everyone else’s parents are nicer than your parents but no one’s grandparents are as nice as yours.
Not the case.
“I don’t think your grandmother liked you very much,” my mother once said, years after my Nana had passed away. It was the kind of statement that might sound hurtful but it actually cleared things up for me. Cool, I thought, you noticed that too?
She wasn’t mean to me. She didn’t make mean comments or pick apart my self esteem or anything. And I’m not from some blue blooded family where she was the matriarch who became disappointed in the state of my loafers and said things like, “You’re a Sturgess* and that is not how a Sturgess behaves!” My grandmother was much more of a crockpot, scratch-off lottery ticket, The Price is Right, Bingo kind of grandmother.
I’ve seen how my friends’ parents treat my friends’ children. The word “adoration” comes to mind. I think Nana was just sort of unimpressed by me. She said I was fidgety. In her presence I was. I always felt uncomfortable in her house. I didn’t like the way it smelled and I just wanted to be home watching TV on my own terms.
I only had to go to her house once a year for Thanksgiving. I saw her twice a year, though. Once at Thanksgiving and once in the summers when we’d go to The Lake, our nickname for Lake Harmony in the Poconos. My mother and I would go there and meet up with my grandmother and my cousins from Atlanta for a week long vacation.
To me, my grandmother was Nana, to my cousins, she was Aunt Margie. Now here’s something that I learned later in life: Aunt Margie was fun. There were no rules with Aunt Margie. If you stayed with Aunt Margie and you wanted to have ice cream for dinner, she’d probably let you.
Who the hell was that lady? I want to hang with her.
There was one time, though, that I got a glimpse of that Aunt Margie. So, we stayed in this weird ass summer home where we would rent two out of the three units. But down the road was a brand new hotel called the Galleria. The Galleria was the most luxurious thing any of us had ever seen. The Galleria had brunches with omelette and waffle stations (luxury for children who hadn’t yet learned that all brunches have omelette and waffle stations), an arcade (filled with the kind of games now played by adults at Barcade), and a movie theater. In a hotel! What?
So one time at The Lake before my cousins were there, Nana took me to the movies at The Galleria. We went to see Back to School. It pains me that I might have to explain this but I suppose I do. Back to School was a 1986 comedy vehicle for the comedian Rodney Dangerfield in which a successful, street smart man lacking a formal education returns to college. It featured a young Robert Downey Jr. and 1980’s screen bully extraordinaire William Zabka.
It wasn’t sophisticated (“Fuck me? Hey, Vonnegut, do you read lips? Fuck you!”) and featured some humor that wasn’t really grandma approved. You’re supposed to see Babe with your grandma, Charlotte’s Web.
Nana fuckin’ loved it.
When we got home, she was telling anyone who would listen how hilarious it was and how, “There was this one scene where he walks in on this girl and she doesn’t have any clothes on…” Yeah, there was an obligatory 1980’s comedy topless shot – the kind of thing to make you cringe watching with your grandmother. Nana thought it was hilarious.
My theory was that Nana always had a weird relationship with my mom. I think my mother’s intelligence and talent and desire to get the hell out of her hometown never sat well with Nana. And I was a part of all that.
I could be wrong. That could be a complete projection. Looking back, though, I think I may have completely missed the boat on how to bond with Nana.
“So, what tapes did you bring this year, Robby?”
“Well, I have Porky’s and Revenge of the Nerds, which one do you want to watch?”
“Let’s watch ’em both.”
“I love you, Nana.”
“Sure, just put the tape in, Robby.”
