An Answered Prayer Of An Almost Third Grader

My mom arrived in the Armpit after we'd been there one week. Which meant I didn't get out of taking naps anymore.

It also meant I had to eat spinach whenever my grandmother chose to cook it.

And shopping. We went shopping at Valley View Mall. Clothes shopping.

This was fun for Grandmother and Mom. They chatted, they got drinks, they pulled ridiculous looking cloths off racks and held them up to my chest. They chatted, they got drinks, they pulled hideous pink monstrosities off racks and bought them.

"Mom!" I cry. "Jeans and t-shirts. Jeans and t-shirts. Please....jeans and t-shirts!"

She shakes her head. "You will dress nicely, Kara Denise. Jeans and t-shirts are not appropriate school attire."

I groan. I moan. I beg and plead. It does no good.

So, here I am....in the Armpit, taking naps, eating spinach, and wearing pink slacks. I pray for a respite. I beg the Lord for a bright, shining moment where something will go my way.

After church, we head over to my great-grandmother's. She has a table set with various types of toasted bread. We run in and hug her. Before I tell you what she says to us, I simply must tell you that it is 9:30 a.m.

Great-grandmother, my namesake, says, "Did you have your ice cream?"

I smile. "Not yet, G.G."

"Go get your ice cream."

I dash off for the drug store, not worried at all that my mother will call me back and dispute G.G.

I laugh in glee and wicked excitement. God has helped me thwart my mother. Oh, happy day! Praying really does work!

Moors y Cristianos

She was born in 1892 in a valley in Spain. Her mother died when she was six. She left Spain when she was in her twenties and lived in Argentina and Cuba. She married her childhood sweetheart in 1919. She lived the remainder of her days in the Armpit. Which was a long time. She was 101 when she died -- May 24th -- three days before I graduated from high school.

Dionisia. My great-grandmother.

I am named after her -- Kara Denise.

She was a plump woman with a ready laugh, a shy quiet nature, and an overwhelming need to feed you. Her constant question, "Are you hungry?" was the first thing out of her mouth when she saw you.

Which worked out great for me because I was ALWAYS hungry.

One of my favorite stories about her centers around food. Beans and rice to be specific.

Beans and rice is a staple of the Catholic family during Lent. We don't eat meat on Fridays, so beans is our substitute. My great-grandmother made fantastic beans and rice, or "Moors y Cristianos" as she called it.

Into a bowl would go the rice -- or Cristianos. Then the beans -- or Moors. Separate cultures, a defined people -- which isn't what God intended -- who fought each other relentlessly.

Then she'd mix the beans into the rice -- just like the Moors mixed with the Cristianos. She would hand you the bowl and say, "See? Now you 'no can tell the deeference."

I loved her. Though she came to America and probably missed her home, never once did she expect you to embrace her culture in order for her to feel like she could practice it. She didn't scream her identity or force you to acknowledge the world she loved. She just was. She was an immigrant who had a great deal of respect for structure and opportunity in America. She became American. And loved her country. But...she was Spanish. And respected the people who came before her.

I was astounded by her. Truly impressed with how she risked changing her whole world for future happiness. She lived independently in Argentina, working and going to the opera, waiting for my great-grandfather to establish his business. Her strength humbled and inspired me. Her wisdom was unparalleled.

And there was one more reason to adore her --

My mother couldn't argue with her....

The Sights of the Armpit

Be sure to hold back your ooohs and ahhhs....

Let's take a tour around town.

As you come upon this town that time forgot, a drawbridge looms before you. It is in working order and provides a crossing over the arroyo. The road made a high humming sound as you went over. This noise could be translated into English by Wendy. The bridge usually said, "We missed you, Wendy!"

Once you're on the other side, to your left is the car wash my uncle made his riches from. Also to your left, across from the car wash, is the public library. You should not be surprised when I tell you Grandmother created that library. And ran it.

Main Street takes you through town. There's no reason to stop because there's no traffic. You pass by the junior high and the high school -- built with bricks. You pass a church -- Baptist. You pass the grocery store -- family owned.

Then you pass my granddad's business. The drugstore.

After that is the post office, and then a BUNCH of cotton and grapefruit.

There was a Luby's. Wait, no. If you wanted to eat at a restaurant, you had to go to the big city. Which we did. On Thursdays. After choir practice at St. Helen's. (Grandmother also directed the choir.)

When we went to Luby's we always got a table in the back. We were assured the area because she always went early to save the seats.

And by she....I mean my namesake.

Tea Time!

It is 4:00 p.m. at my grandmother's house. Apparently, that means we need to have tea.

Maria and Wendy climb up in the cushioned kitchen seats. They cross their legs daintily and look eager to participate. Bill sits in his high chair, smiling at the world, and allowing the women around him to include him in their fun.

I sat dutifully but certainly not daintily.

Grandmother pours tea into very delicate china cups. We have sugar-free cookies and other finger foods.

Maria and Wendy sip very carefully. I slurp.

"Don't slurp, Kara," Grandmother admonishes me as she raises a cookie to her lips. Admiration fills me as I watch her stretch her mouth around that cookie, carefully not messing her lipstick. It was quite a feat. My sisters and brother liked to watch her eat, always waiting for the time when she would smudge her Instant Mocha shade.

Apparently it happened, for she always reapplied using this little mirror attached to the lipstick tube. I never saw her make-up out of place. Not once.

Grandmother seemed like perfection. Everything nice. Everything pleasant. Everything intelligent.

I thought it amazing, and I wondered if I would ever appear as put together.

If it meant no more kick ball games, well, it would probably never happen.

Grandmother's House

I am still eating Cheerio's every morning. Still taking swimming lessons, still conning my way out of naps, and the setting is still "the armpit".

As I've mentioned, my grandmother was a teacher. And an English teacher at that. So, her house was a little....particular.

Everything had a place, and everything was in its place. You NEVER ran out of red checking pencils, and she recycled all her old worksheets by allowing us to write on the back when we played newscaster, or God help me, school. (I was forced into playing it by Maria and Wendy because I couldn't go outside and play with any of the neighborhood kids. I didn't know them.)

Her kitchen was especially organized. Some of her practices I never quite understood. For instance, she put wax paper between her stacked pans. I am seven, and I promise you I'm thinking, "What the ????"

Most people had a tupperware cabinet that when opened, you experienced an avalanche. Not my grandmother. Oh, heck no. She had all tupperware pieces stacked inside cigar boxes. Those cigar boxes had the following labels written on the front: small lids, medium lids, large lids, small bowls, medium bowls, large bowls.....you get the idea.

God help you if you didn't put a lid in the right spot.

All cloth-like items or papers or....well, I never really understood which items deserved this treatment, but she wrapped just about everything in plastic bags and tied them with colored twistie ties.

She also paper-clipped everything. All the bills, letters, etc. she received for the week or month would be on the desk paper-clipped together.

Now let's travel to the living room, music room, and hallway. Her books were neatly displayed in these areas. None bore signs of wear and tear, though she read them. She didn't dare ruin her books by dogearing corners, or laying them spread eagle on the table. And whoa is you if she caught you doing that. Her books were her jewels. They were so precious that if you wanted to read one, you had to check it out.

You read that accurately. We checked out her books like they were from a library. She organized every title, knew precisely where each book was on each shelf, and kept a record of their use on index cards. Her very own card catalog system.

But even more particular than this is the drawer where she kept her playing cards. She had several decks of cards, all different colors. Some of these decks had labels. These labels bore hand written notes. These notes would read, "This deck is missing the 3 of clubs.", "This deck is missing the 10 of diamonds."

Even at the age of seven I thought, why doesn't she just throw the deck away?

I never asked her.


Of course, the scary thing is I am finding I can be just as particular as she was. As I write this, I am a few days away from turning 38, and I promise you, when you open my tupperware cabinet, you will NOT experience an avalanche.

However, I am not so persnickety as to keep AND label my unusable decks of cards.

But...there's still time.

The Armpit Continues to Sweat

After Cheerios and swimming lessons, we had lunch. Granddad would come home from the store and eat with us. We would sit at the table while he came around and kissed the top of our heads. He must've liked his job because he never seemed irritated with it.

How could you be irritated when you served ice cream? Correction...Blue Bell ice cream.

After lunch, we'd take a nap.

As you read this, I am raising one eyebrow communicating the following: Not gonna happen.

But, I didn't argue. I dutifully followed my sisters and brother to our beds. I laid down for around ten minutes. It was all I could take.

I would give my hair a good shake, messing it up as much as possible. I would walk into the kitchen and in my sleepiest voice say, "I slept."

She would always give a great sigh and then say, "Alright, Kara. Go watch TV."

At this point, I would skip over the divan, plop down, and turn on Nickelodeon. I watched Pinwheel and You Can't Do That On Television while Maria, Wendy, and Bill slept.

I don't know if they were ever irritated that I got out of taking naps. My thought was, if you didn't want to sleep, you too could mess up your hair and fool your grandmother.

The Armpit

As stated earlier, we spent two weeks every summer in a hot, dusty farm town close to the Rio Grande with my mother's parents. The first week without our mother; the second week with.

Grandmother rose at 5:00 a.m. to read the paper and eat poached eggs. Granddad rose a little after that and went to the store he ran with my great uncle. It was your average American drug store complete with soda fountain and counter top seating.

Grandmother was a retired school teacher. She taught English to middle school students for thirty years. Words, books, and the structure of sentences were her hobbies. The gift she wanted from the district to commemorate her retirement was an Oxford English Dictionary. The book was huge. You could tone your arm muscles with it. (But don't let Grandmother catch you at that.)

To continue:

Grandmother rose at 5:00 a.m. and read the paper from beginning to end. She kept a red pencil at her side and carefully edited their mistakes. Then she'd put the corrected paper in the mail and send it to the newspaper office -- "The Valley Morning Star". She entitled it, "The Valley Morning Disappointment".

We rose at 7:00 and went for our Cheerios. She kept the cereal in the largest circular Tupperware I've ever seen. We scooped them out with this little cup, then shook liquid saccharine on top to give our breakfast sweetness.

Grandmother had diabetes. No sugar in her house -- except for emergencies.

We sat at the table, swinging our legs and eating our Cheerios while she patiently underlined misspelled words in her reading material. Her eyebrows were always raised, her glasses always perched on her nose. She wore her satin robe and gown, sipped her coffee, and shook her head at supposedly qualified writers.

If she were reading this, I wonder how many mistakes she would find.