Kentucky Kaleidoscope

The Face Lift

My grandmother was a stunningly beautiful woman, but her beauty wasn't solely her own doing. Everyone would remark, "Your grandmother is so pretty," and I couldn't agree more. Her curves were exquisite, and she had an unmistakable charm. With her petite frame, short Marilyn Monroe hair, and captivating smile, she was a vision. Her eyes, blue and captivating, were perfectly complemented by her elegantly shaped eyebrows.

If there was one flaw she possessed, it was her neck, which unfortunately I inherited from both sides of the family. I affectionately refer to it as a "check," a fusion of a chin and a neck. It lacks definition and falls somewhere between the two.

Throughout her life, my grandmother also struggled with this imperfection. And as an adult woman who is entering her 40's I understand that feeling more than ever.

During my formative years, she lived with us in the attic area of our house. Now, when I say attic, you might envision a gloomy, windowless space, but in reality, it was quite lovely. My grandmother had contributed funds to transform it into a charming loft apartment, complete with windows, a bathroom, and a hallway. It became her own separate living space.

Unlike my mother, who often seemed scattered and frantic, my grandmother exuded a sense of calm and organization. Though she battled her own anxieties and vanity, I admired her greatly in comparison.

Our family's living area was typically cluttered and disorganized, and my mother was frequently frazzled and easily agitated. In contrast, my grandmother's room upstairs was a haven of softness and femininity. The decor was tastefully feminine, and it always smelled delightful.

My mother, on the other hand, never seemed to prioritize self-care or maintain her mental well-being. I vividly remember being enthralled as my grandmother meticulously painted her nails, a practice my mother never engaged in. She taught me how to file and care for my cuticles, something my mother never took the time to show me.

Whenever my mother yelled and screamed at us for having messy rooms, my grandmother would intervene, saying, "I think you're being too hard on them, Debbie," though she too would continue to raise her voice. Despite her efforts, I appreciated my grandmother's attempts to protect us.

There was one incident I can't forget. During a particularly heated argument about our messy, cluttered rooms, my mother impulsively threw a shoe at my sister's head. I like to believe it was an accident, but I'm not entirely sure. In the hallway, my grandmother stood helplessly behind my screaming mother. Her petite frame was barely visible behind my mother's round, brunette, wavy bob as she continued to berate us.

Sometimes when I enter my kids rooms I remember that moment and I understand now why my mother accidentally lost it and threw a shoe at our heads.

Every Sunday night, my sister and I would escape to my grandmother's attic space and watch "The Adventures of Louis and Clark Super Man." In that cozy attic, I felt safe, loved, and warm.

Then one day, my grandmother and mother disappeared for a while. When they returned, my grandmother was wrapped up like a mummy. Worried, I asked, "What happened to you, Grandma?" She mumbled, half out of it from the medication, as my mother dragged her upstairs to her room. For several days, I wasn't allowed to see her or visit her.

I couldn't understand why I couldn't spend time with my grandmother as I usually did. I eagerly awaited the day when I could see her again. Finally, she made an appearance, and I anxiously stood by her side as she slowly unwrapped the bandages from her face. The person sitting in front of me was unrecognizable. Who was this stranger? I thought to myself. This was no longer the grandmother I knew. What had happened?

Her face was bruised, red, and purple, adorned with staples. She could barely speak as she stared at me and mumbled, "What do you think?" As a polite young girl, I hesitated and said she looked good, although it was a complete and utter lie. She resembled a character from a horror movie, and I was utterly terrified.

Over time, my grandmother's face healed, and I grew accustomed to her "new look." The grandmother I knew and loved resided within that altered face. However, after the face lift incident, she decided to embark on a new adventure and moved to Florida.

The soft, pink attic that exuded a comforting scent was packed up and relocated to a condo in Daytona Beach, Florida. We would only see her on occasion during the summers when my mother experienced nervous breakdowns. I never forgot the unwrapping of my mummy grandmother, but despite her changed appearance, she remained a beautiful lady. She always received compliments wherever she went.

At the nightclubs in Daytona Beach for retirees, men lined up to dance with her and showered her with attention. She was never without company and love.

She was the most beautiful, fun and loving, most adventurous grandmother anyone can ask for and I will never forget her.