On a Sunday afternoon in 1979, she'd likely be sitting on that drab olive couch in that one-bedroom apartment. The one that overlooked the river and the old two-lane drawbridge.
And if it were early afternoon, she'd probably be tossing that wadded-up-paper-wound-in-cloth-tape "baseball" toward me. I'd bat it with my hand and scamper around the makeshift bases with visions of Johnny Bench or Dave Concepcion in my head, while she'd shift around the couch or lean down to retrieve the "ball" from the floor.
Mom and Dad would drop me off after church while they went out to eat, probably at Sambo's, the Sizzler, or Taco Bell.
Grandmother would have been seventy-ish then.
I don't remember her before the wreck. They say she was energetic. She worked full-time up until the accident, something that wasn't as commonplace then. Once a week, she would cook supper for us and make the hour-long drive to bring it over. She always wore a dress. Her hair was always carefully coiffed.
I only remember her like she was now--then--in 1979. Moving slowly, she shuffled when she walked, taking small steps. Her hands looked frail, always shaking slightly. Dependent on others for transportation, Dad would go and get her every Saturday and take her to the laundromat.
She was kind, always asking and concerned if we needed anything or any money. And still always in a dress. I never saw either of my grandmothers wear anything other than a dress.
If we weren't playing baseball, I'd look out the big picture window hoping to see the drawbridge go up. I was thrilled anytime a barge or other large vessel came through, watching the spans of the double-leafed bascule rise ever so deliberately, halting traffic in both directions. For some reason, I often imagined a car not stopping in time and ending up teetering on the edge of one of the raised spans.
Other times I would play with the myriad of glass, crystal, and ceramic figurines she had collected on her shelves. She'd always call them my "play-pretties." I can't believe she trusted me to handle them. Heaven knows I must have broken a few.
Christmastime is when I think of her the most. I imagine that's true for a lot of us with regard to those who have passed or are no longer a part of our lives.
But it's not as if we had these great, idealistic Christmases with her.
After taking her shopping for us, Dad would bring her over early Christmas Eve afternoon. Almost without fail, she would have picked out some gift that we were two or three years too old for already. And it seems I'd get the big six-pack of tube socks with the double stripes of blue, green, yellow, and red every year.
I'm sure we said our polite "thank yous" but in no way did I come close to appreciating her gifts then. Gifts that were hand-picked by a lady who didn't get around well anymore, was on a fixed income, and had to get a ride just to get to the store.
It all means so much more to me now.
Dad would take Grandmother home, then we'd go to my Mom's mother's Christmas Eve night, and again for dinner on Christmas Day.
After everyone had eaten, Dad would gather a plate of leftovers and take over to Grandmother. I think I rode with him once or twice, but almost assuredly I chose most often to stay behind and play with my cousins.
I think about it often this time of year. Her sitting mostly alone on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, undoubtedly looking forward to those few moments she got to see her grandchildren.
All these years later, I still feel sad for her. Regretful about something now impossible to change. 'Tis a marvelous and tragic thing, this humanness...
The two-story apartment building still stands. It appears to have been updated over the years. I think of her most every time I pass.
The Tennessee River still runs faithfully, from Knoxville to Paducah, but there's no trace of the drawbridge. They tore it down in the late nineties.
There was talk of preserving it, turning it into a historic site, leaving part of it as a pedestrian bridge with little shops and restaurants. But that fell through. The city has never done much to develop the riverfront into anything more than a port and a place for manufacturing companies to dump their waste.
Nowadays, we make sure to see all the kids' grandparents around Christmas. They don't all get Christmas Eve or Christmas Day -- that would be virtually impossible. But they all get a couple of hours or more.
It's a lesson a six-year-old with an Adam Rich haircut finally learned from his Grandmother.
It was never about the tube socks. It was always about the time.
