I remember being fascinated by that bracelet, turning over each brass face and looking for mine. Memorizing the names of all my cousins, some so much older that they seemed part of the "grown-ups" and another group so COOL that I could only wish to be included in their fun (you know who you are). Gramma always had time for me and I recall that big house in Syracuse, the steps to the park, the sun room upstairs with the rickety floor and the vines climbing up the side, the stucco walls of the house outside, the grand sweeping staircase with the wide banister, the small cubbyholes just right for hiding in, sleeping in the front room upstairs and watching the weird shadows and light shifting on the walls from the cars passing outside, the city noises mixed with November rains hitting the windows and keeping me awake, the smell of old house and tobacco, the chaos and crazy wonderful family reunions----all these snatches of memories come pouring in when I see the bracelet.
Gramma used to babysit me when our parents went away on business trips. I remember one time sitting across the dining room table in the house on Croton Ave and watching her take deep drags on her cigarette while drinking black coffee. "Gramm", I said with the intense conviction of a 12 year old, " when are you going to quit smoking--it's bad for you!" She stared at me hard for a moment, pulled a great deal of smoke down into her lungs and let it out slowly, savoring the drama. "What!, So I won't die young?" she replied.
Another conversation I had with her: we were chatting about dating and marriage. I was still about 12 at the time with only a passing interest in boys, my true love having four legs and a whinny. (there is some argument that this is still so) "In my day, if a girl wasn't married by the time she was 16, she was considered On The Shelf." She declared. "Wow," I said (or something like that ). "How old were you when you got married?" Gramma gave me that steady, sly look and the next two words were slowly, deliberately spoken, with each syllable hitting the air crisply "twenty-six". And that was the end of the conversation.
When we were 13 or 14, my best friend and neighbor, Mary Link, and I would often sneak out (or try to) of the house to go to visit the "fort". Mike and Bryan Roberts and friends had built a get away in the woods complete with a radio, bunk beds, some really old furniture, and paraphernalia that is now probably legal in Washington State. When my parents were home I did not try to sneak out because my Mom ALWAYS knew. It was not for lack of rebellious spirit, attempt or desire. It's just that the other kids didn't want me along because if I was there, we would get caught. One night about 11:00 pm when Gramm was watching over me (I have no idea or recollection where Ginny was; perhaps she was in college) Mary and I decided to go to the fort. We waited until we were sure Gram was asleep. (In retrospect I now know that she could not possible have been asleep.) There was about 6 inches of snow on the ground and I cleverly walked backwards through the snow so that anyone seeing my footprints would think I had come into the house, not out. However, when Mary and I tried to sneak back in around 2:00 am, Gramma was up waiting for me. I don't recall her yelling or anything or even a lecture. It was terrible enough that I had worried her. I never snuck out of the house again after that---but mostly because that night had confirmed the neighborhood's opinion that I was bad luck for the sneak out! Gramma was scary and sarcastic and solid and warm and strong--- I hope that I can grow up to be just like her!
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