N
Nelda
Even though I look mostly like my mom, there is a picture of my grandma Teague, Nelda, that I bear a very strong resemblance to. It might be that we have the same build--low to the ground and built more for endurance than speed. Grandma and Grandpa Teague were the "fun" grandparents. I loved my other grandparents to pieces, but they were older and didn't do things like camping, fishing, filling my brother and me full of junk food and candy, letting us run like wild Indians, drive go carts, and all manner of dangerous, thrilling things. Any given Friday night we might pile into their big tank of a car, my grandma smelling like talcum powder, in cat-eye glasses and a nice dress, her lips painted red-red and her hair dyed jet black, and go to a bar called Spec and Jane's where they specialized in beer in tiny glasses and fried chicken. My brother and I were like flies on the wall in an adult world where everyone smoked and drank and laughed and teased each other and told jokes. It was a blast. Or my brother and I might pile into the bed of the pickup truck (My God, would you ever throw your kids in the back of an open pickup truck? It's as if kids were either considered tougher or more expendable back then!) and we'd "go to town", which meant the next town over, and my grandparents would buy econo-sized cartons of malted milk balls and orange circus peanuts. When we got back to their house, we could consume these candies in as much quantity as we wanted, topped off with some soda and a big pan of popcorn popped in bacon grease.
Other nights, they'd have big Euchre parties. My grandma learned of a drink called the Harvey Wallbanger. It was all the rage, and she was going to make them. Instead of orange juice, she used what was at hand--vodka and Tang--and served them in glasses collected from the Marathon Oil company (grandpa drove the Marathon gas delivery truck) with depictions of each of the Apollo lunar missions. And because my grandma was a blast, even my brother and I got Harvey Wallbangers. Give the kids a little vodka for crying out loud! Their parents will never know!
In the early 70's she hung strands of colored beads in a doorway. Everyone thought they were the ultimate in tacky. I loved them. Grandma was just completely quirky like that. (Thus, maybe, my strong genetic predisposition to quirky behavior.) Mom always complained that we came home from their house all cranky and with stomach aches. Well, no kidding, we probably did, but boy did we have fun. My grandmother died much too young, at 56, of a brain tumor, and my grandpa followed a year and a half later, supposedly of a heart attack from smoking and all that bacon fat, but I think part of it was that his heart just broke. There was simply no replacing my grandma. Nelda was a force of nature.
Even though I look mostly like my mom, there is a picture of my grandma Teague, Nelda, that I bear a very strong resemblance to. It might be that we have the same build--low to the ground and built more for endurance than speed. Grandma and Grandpa Teague were the "fun" grandparents. I loved my other grandparents to pieces, but they were older and didn't do things like camping, fishing, filling my brother and me full of junk food and candy, letting us run like wild Indians, drive go carts, and all manner of dangerous, thrilling things. Any given Friday night we might pile into their big tank of a car, my grandma smelling like talcum powder, in cat-eye glasses and a nice dress, her lips painted red-red and her hair dyed jet black, and go to a bar called Spec and Jane's where they specialized in beer in tiny glasses and fried chicken. My brother and I were like flies on the wall in an adult world where everyone smoked and drank and laughed and teased each other and told jokes. It was a blast. Or my brother and I might pile into the bed of the pickup truck (My God, would you ever throw your kids in the back of an open pickup truck? It's as if kids were either considered tougher or more expendable back then!) and we'd "go to town", which meant the next town over, and my grandparents would buy econo-sized cartons of malted milk balls and orange circus peanuts. When we got back to their house, we could consume these candies in as much quantity as we wanted, topped off with some soda and a big pan of popcorn popped in bacon grease.
Other nights, they'd have big Euchre parties. My grandma learned of a drink called the Harvey Wallbanger. It was all the rage, and she was going to make them. Instead of orange juice, she used what was at hand--vodka and Tang--and served them in glasses collected from the Marathon Oil company (grandpa drove the Marathon gas delivery truck) with depictions of each of the Apollo lunar missions. And because my grandma was a blast, even my brother and I got Harvey Wallbangers. Give the kids a little vodka for crying out loud! Their parents will never know!
In the early 70's she hung strands of colored beads in a doorway. Everyone thought they were the ultimate in tacky. I loved them. Grandma was just completely quirky like that. (Thus, maybe, my strong genetic predisposition to quirky behavior.) Mom always complained that we came home from their house all cranky and with stomach aches. Well, no kidding, we probably did, but boy did we have fun. My grandmother died much too young, at 56, of a brain tumor, and my grandpa followed a year and a half later, supposedly of a heart attack from smoking and all that bacon fat, but I think part of it was that his heart just broke. There was simply no replacing my grandma. Nelda was a force of nature.
Comments
The Wallbangers with Tang.
These lines made me laugh heartily.
I love your grandma.