Have I Told You Tuesday: why there are push pops in our freezer

Dearest Daughters,

I only knew Great Grandma Reyes/Acoba/Crazy for what is now, half my life.

She passed away, but remains a force to be reckoned with, bits of her living in our memories, in our hearts and in your Lola. In me and in you too. And in our freezer, but read on; there are not actual parts of her in our freezer.

She was and is this spirit and presence of love and laughter.

Of dandruff on shoulder pads and inches-long, millimeters-thick, pinching finger nails.

Of fashion statements. Of fake pearl barrettes, clipped onto, hanging from necklaces and Hawaiian print outfits.

One dare not mention her name in disrespect. In loving jest about her insanity, perhaps, but with a quick, "we sure love her," to counter any aswang attack she might launch from the heavens. Or your closet.

She's a game of shot-gun roulette. A hinged door, swinging one way or the other, depending on the breeze.

You never knew with her. And that was half the fun. And half the fear.

She watched Kevin and me after school. And some days she indulged our PBS kids show desires, watching Sesame Street and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood with us.

And some days we were stuck watching Press Your Luck and soap operas.

While she made us an after school snack of instant ramen (my choice) or macaroni and cheese (not my choice).

If we were lucky, she'd hand us an expired candy bar that she'd won at the bingo hall. But we were never to play with her bingo "daubers."

Or else the fingernails.

Seriously.

I can't even describe the fingernails. Without cringing in fear and mild disgust.

But, sometimes. They tickled, tucking the musty electric blanket around my shoulders. When I pretended to stay home sick and was supposed to stay in her bed all day.

But, sneaked out to sit with her on the couch. Or at the sticky kitchen table. Thumbing through decades of Reader's Digest, eating freshly fried banana fritters.

Told not to play by the fence outside. Because of the snakes. That go down the back of your shirt. And give you a fever.

"Keb-ben!" she'd yell, my little brother ignoring her warnings.

"Git down prrum der!" The fence, the tree or the flat asphalt roof of her house.

"Pabungúlo." You silly, hard-headed boy.

And she'd throw us in the Oldsmobile. I'd ride shotgun, being the child who didn't climb on the roof.

To Star Market. For a push pop. Or those glazed fruit pies. Banana creme or chocolate filled. Probably on the shelf a year too long.

To a rusty playground.

And I'd sit beside her on a park bench, watching the pabungúlo play. As she smoked a cigarette, reminding me not to tell my mommy, her two-inch long fingernails unconsciously clacking together in subliminal warning.

Melted orange push pop dripping down my chin. She pulled wadded napkins from her purse, saved from the drive-thru bag of KFC chicken littles or wrapped around gas station "AM/PAM" hot dogs.

Wiping my face.

Calling for Kevin, "Psssht! Psssht! Time toe goh home now! Git ober here!"

And he did.

Love,

Comments

[Mommy (not yours, but theirs)]

Glad to make you cry? Laugh? Laugh cry?

[Robin]

Lauren,

Your writing embodies her beautifully. Typing this through tears. Well done.

[Auntie diane]

Lauren,
You crack me up. Had tears welling. Thanks so much for the memories.

[Mommy (not yours, but theirs)]

Auntie, glad my words can do her justice. All I have are snippets of moments of memories from too short a time with her. It's hard to know where the reality of her ended and where my childhood perceptions began. Though I clearly remember the nails.

[auntie lina]

Love this....yep, that was my mommy....