Dear Frank,
Let me tell you about my Uncle Melvin. In his starched khaki shirt and pants, with his pearl-handled pistol and the smell of aftershave, he was a man who absolutely adored me and took enormous pleasure in making sure I had a wonderful time. Growing up in Texas, I have vivid memories of sitting on the tailgate of his pickup on his ranch outside Cameron, my hair in pigtails, watching with great anticipation as he drove slowly through the pasture yelling out “Soooook” and “Come on, Girls!” to get the cows to come up and accept my offerings of green sticks. I particularly remember the green saliva that dribbled down my arm as they chewed. I can’t remember what those sticks were, but I certainly remember the saliva.
The Heart O’ Texas Fair and Rodeo in Waco was a big event in our lives, and one of my favorite competitions was calf roping. The cowboy would race after a calf on horseback, throw his lariat, leap off his horse, wrestle the calf to the ground, tie three of its legs together with the piggin’ string, then leap triumphantly to his feet.
Done!
I thought about that this afternoon as I drove over the Wappoo Creek Bridge, having completed what may have been my most ambitious grandmothering weekend to date. Through a combination of family plans, some helpful friends, and my apparently boundless confidence in my grandmothering abilities, the stage was set for quite a roundup. And as it turned out, my confidence was entirely justified!
There had been five grandchildren, multiple households, potty negotiations, laundry, chicken nuggets, dogs, countless sippy cups, and one particularly memorable visit from the police at 2:30 in the morning. (The police visit was largely my own contribution to the festivities.) So when Sadie made it clear at 2 a.m. that she had urgent business in the backyard, and Simon agreed, I obligingly opened the back door for them and inadvertently announced to the entire neighborhood that a major crime was in progress.
The alarm was deafening. An orange light continuously flooded the kitchen with an eerie, blatant and intrusive glow. Apparently, the code to disarm the burglar alarm was information I possessed but had failed to assemble into a useful thought. And with a screaming alarm, frantic dogs, and a pounding heart, I couldn’t do a dang thing to put an end to this ridiculous situation. I tried every birthday, the year David graduated, and even the last four digits of my childhood telephone number, backwards, to no avail.
Eventually, I found myself standing in the driveway in my nightgown and slippers, discussing the situation with two good-looking and very nice police officers whose patrol car lights were flashing all around me. I have never been more grateful for an opaque nightgown. (A Hill House Nap Dress will always do you well in those situations.)
Meanwhile, a precious baby boy wailed upstairs. I had managed to turn a routine canine bathroom break into a full-fledged dadgum national emergency. And eventually, order was restored, although not before several children had awakened with absolutely no intention of going back to sleep.
By Sunday noon, every child had been accounted for, delivered, collected, or redistributed. The laundry was finished, the beds remade, the kitchen spotless, and the toys put away. Finally, I climbed into my car with Mitzi, my only remaining dependent, and headed home. And suddenly I remembered those Texas cowboys. I wanted to pull over, jump out of the car, plant my boots in the dirt, snatch off my Stetson, and fling both arms triumphantly into the air.
Of course, in my particular rodeo, I had also been the one to open the gate and let the cattle out. But I still think I deserve the buckle!
Love
Jane
P. S. Being Mamamom to these little critters is one of the great joys of my life, even if it occasionally requires the assistance of the Charleston Police Department.
