Henry's Grandmother Tells It Like It Is!(Charles A. Mazzarella) Henry’s Grandmother Tells It Like It Is!

Age is the factor in life that creates mature persons and wines. Cheese ripens, vinegars age, cars increase in value, and things decay. If a wine sits too long, it can be enjoyed as vinegar, eventually. Yet, the amount of years someone or something accrues does not necessarily mean that quality has improved.

A friend’s grandmother seems to have not sweetened with age yet either. She is straightforward when she tells you about anyone she talks about. She embarrasses her friends and family in her directness unintentionally. She has enough tact to not criticize a stranger to their face, about what they may be wearing or how their hair looks. But, when they’ve passed by, her tongue becomes a razor and the dissection begins.

As it was summer in our neck of the woods, churches and fire departments were holding their regular community fundraisers; bazaar season was at its’ peak. There were church festivals and celebrations for the area’s ethnic foods. Locals and visitors alike spent money to sample traditional dishes, hear local bands, and meet up with neighbors and friends.

Henry took his grandmother to a nearby neighborhood event. He also asked a friend along, and the three of them drove the four miles and saw a myriad of sights. Displayed before them were smells and tunes, faces and fashion, and about 100 stands that offered both the mundane and slightly exotic. While a local polka band took a break towards the end of the night, out flowed the bottled-up opinions of the matron in our group. This was not the first time I was a witness to the pointed remarks of this silver-haired dame. Like with any good storm, as time passed, the intensity increased. She began to regale us with her observations, and 73 years of quips that usually started with the phrase, ‘back in my day’.

“I like local events for several reasons. They promote the local economy. It is a time for organizations, clubs, and businesses to shine. People come from all over and pour their money into sometimes, economically depressed areas; even if just for a few days. And, as with any place that gathers large crowds, it offers people a chance to mingle.”

“Almost every shape, size, and type of person interested enough, comes out to attend events like this. You can’t help but notice, as you squeeze by people to progress onward, the look of those you leave behind. Some are tall, some are grubby, some are morbidly overweight, and some are cute. There are old and young, financially comfortable, and not so well off. Some people use vulgar language and always seem to be shouting; others sit quietly and watch while they munch on their treat. Among all of the sights one can see, most remarkable, to me, is how people present themselves.”

“The amount of money in your bank account is not necessarily an indicator of style. Just as how you dress, may not indicate how wealthy you are. If your hair is slicked back or at least combed, you may own or drive a newer car. This is not always the case, however.”

The band played their second set and jaunty tunes that can lift your spirits, filled the air. We drank a beer or two and enjoyed the local fare. By this time, Henry’s grandmother had met up with two of her old cronies. Before the band would return for their final hour, Grandma Madge had resumed her rather coarse remarks.

“Have you ever noticed in attending local events that are public in nature, you cannot help to see a representation of what the average person may be sporting this year? Some people are wearing whatever colors are popular at present, while others drape themselves in the styles of years past. Now, I am no trend setter. But, I am aware of when some blouse or pair of shoes is too tight or too loose, or from days gone by.”

Grandma Madge’s friends nodded in agreement and spouted some of their own blistering statements; all the while, the glasses of beer were emptied and refilled. Henry, being the most sober, decided to call his older brother to pick us up. While we waited, Madge’s acrid words again were spewed.

“Some people let themselves go! They can barely fit down the sidewalk. This guy should comb his middle-of-the-back ponytail and his wife should keep their one-month old grandson at home. Trim your scraggily beard, wash your clothes, and try wearing a shirt with a collar now and then. If you are over forty and forty or more pounds overweight, don’t wear sleeveless tee shirts that show off your untrimmed arm pit hair to people trying to keep their greasy meal down.”

“Folks ought to know better when they are among others. Dress up a bit! Comb your hair. Shave that week-old Five o’ clock shadow, and try to take a walk, once in a while! Your case of cheap beer will still be in the fridge awaiting you to crack it open, as you settle in for another afternoon of watching loud cars zip around an oval track.”

Henry and I agreed, some things are not as good pickled, and his grandmother was one of them. The next morning, when we all had time to recuperate, I visited Henry and Madge. She seemed to be back to her delightful self: baking a cake, as it was her scrawny husband’s birthday today; that poor man. What is it that he wished for every year; stealing a breath for himself, in hopes of fulfilling a dream?

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