Take off your hat, I want to stand up.

Chapter 16: Too gone Granny.

Chapter 16: 

Too Gone Granny

Christmas dinner in 1962 was a slick event. The cousins from Winnipeg had driven for 8 hours through a white out blizzard, along a snow drifted single lane highway at an average speed of under 30 miles per hour. They were in such a good mood by the time they showed up for Sunday roast turkey dinner. Lucky by 4:30 every adult was smiling that booze infused smile one gets when they have had nothing to eat and as much stress as a rear tail gunner on a long mission over the front. Uncle Ken was a pilot in a Lancaster bomber during the war. He flew over forty missions, so he knew what he was talking about.

There was a convulsed commotion at the door just after five, the wind swept in along with Grandpa Blair and his wife Jessie. As they pealed off the layers of winter outer wear there standing before the group of relations was the patriarch himself, John Alexander Blair. His bald head was beaded with sweat, his face was flush from exertion and his round rimmed glasses were foggy, yet he smiled a great big hello greeting to all. He shook off the weather from his round rimmed hat and placed it on the closet shelf. It reminded me of an early Christmas visit from Santa. I thought if I only looked out into the drive I would see the reindeer fly away.

Jessie then took over centre stage, she took both my mom and Auntie Verna to wrestle her gear off and saddle her with house slippers so she would not slip on the hardwood floors. Jessie was smiling and cooing, chuckling and roaming her eyes around the room as if she were searching for her lost dog. The children were shuffled away to give everyone at the entrance door room to breath. You know what it would be like to be a new puppy at an orphanage. You would be happy to be there but even happier to be let alone for a time.

My dear sweet mom, Ev was a gamer as far as putting together a fancy meal, but she lacked one small certain element, she had no clue how to cook. Her idea was to take five to ten cans out of the cupboard, empty the contents into various pots, put these on the stove then race the heat to high and put a good boil on everything.

She would place the turkey into the oven and cook it on maximum heat for way, way too long. She felt that to under cook a piece of meat was not healthful. She would quote some obscure fact from Dr. Spock, the baby doctor and not the space voyager. So we have a nice ten pound rib-eye roast would melt down to a crisp four and a half pounds of very tough shoe leather by the time it hit the round table. The turkey would be much the same it would be crispy.

Once presented it smelled good, looked good, almost normal. It was shiny brown accompanied by a table full of promise, pearl onions, green beans, creamed corn, some green jiggly salad, tomatoes aspect, round dinner buns and gherkin pickles, a fine festive spread.

The Tom turkey was dry, in fact it was very dry, it was as the great Gobi desert. When the carver had pierced it's rippled skin, the bird deflated and looked sadly glum. Alright that is what gravy is for I found out. A good gravy is capable of charming the most reluctant meal. I watched as the blessing was stated and done. Grandpa Blair had enough God fearing in him for the rest of us, my mom picked up the sentiment as a tradition to carry forth. We were not allowed to eat until the grace had been dutifully crafted and all said Amen, let us eat.

When the eyes of the family cleared and our faces brightened, Grandma Blair let out a slow but energetic whoop, stood half off the chair, reached out with both hands and buried them in the mashed potatoes. She squeezed them between her fingers, made a snowball and let the right hand one go in a spray. The fury of flying mashed potatoes took us off guard. At once we froze in amazement as the left hand let her go.

Just as the first handful found ground, wall, chair, table and the odd bit of hair, she eyed the bowl. She was going in for another when my dad reached across to put an armpit in her road. At the same time a voice said, sit down. Grandpa Blair barked in about as harsh a tone as I have ever heard from him. It surprised me almost as much as the potato flinging. Jessie was just laughing as though she was just having the best time, I think she was. She settled down. I could tell she still had an eye on the mashed potatoes, every time she swept by them with her eyes, she grinned.

We all turned back to eating our dinner, we kept one eye pealed in Grannies direction. Grandpa Blair had a peculiar food habit born of need and want as a youth. He piled food onto his plate in proportion, then he would mash it all together to form a ball of food. He would place it in the centre of his plate. Next it mushroomed into a small hill. Then he would hit it with the gravy, a truckers portion to be sure. He poured it from the top to the sides, it made a grand shape. Little rivers of gravy flowed down to eddy on the decorative plate.

This would fix his attention on his food. He would eat in non-stop motion until seconds was offered. Then he would repeat the entire process right down to sopping up the last bit of mashed potato gravy with the final bite of a Parkerhouse roll. The man could eat.

My job was to help with the dishes. I have been doing dishes ever since I can remember. When I was very young I could look up at under the counter from my perspective. I was the dryer, apparently this was a coveted job.

My mom would every single pot, plate, dish, saucer and display plate in the house, the dishes were piled deep and thick on the counter. Because of her unusual cooking style the bottom of the pots would need dynamite to clean. Occasionally, these ones she would say, needed to be soaked over night. I wanted to toss them out, put them out of their misery.

Needless to mention the dishes took hours and hours to complete. At that time mom would say, now wasn't that a good meal you kids are so lucky. Did you know there are starving children in Africa. She would fish for a few weak compliments, coax us along until we relented and agreed. Yes we were far better off than those kids, thanks mom.

Holiday meals, family, dogs, small spaces and lots of booze was the means and measure of a successful family get together. Once you throw down with remarks, disparity of views, tempers rise until people start to leave, the exact tipping point changes with each occasion. What was true, Granny was critically crazy. Years later I found out the remarkable truth to the situation, I still shake my head to think of the scene that played out the summer before in Texas.