Mrs. May’s Grand Giveaway
Katy Kirk
As I sit here in the ICU waiting room surrounded by Mrs. May’s closest family I can’t help but smirk. I know this is totally inappropriate, but when I hear phrases like “God will do what is best for her” I realize how little these people actually knew Mrs. May. She is pragmatic and phrases like that would only irritate her. She is old and tired and Mrs. May’s body will do what is best for Mrs. May. I also feel guilty because I am here to comfort a friend who is losing her grandmother, but what I want is to find a little comfort too. I know her as something other than “matriarch of the family”, another phrase that is getting thrown around that I’m sure she would hate. I know her as Mrs. May, my friend.
Her family is telling stories. Like the time Grandma May raised the most money at their church’s fish fry by selling her fried chocolate pies. Then there is the time Mrs. May went before the school board because her first born was accused of smoking cigarettes on the bus. She told the superintendent, “That my son will not be expelled, because if he smoked I would’ve known it. Good mothers know everything about their sons.” Mrs. May’s son did not get expelled.
My own memories of Mrs. May do not paint the picture of a church lady saint or lioness mother. When someone is dying people find comfort in sainting the soon to be deceased. Mrs. May’s family is the same. They are all glazing over all her less cuddly personality traits. She was unpredictable, impatient, and thought the majority of the world’s population was made up of idiots. I find enjoyment in revisiting memories that flaunted Mrs. May’s more dislikable qualities. Like the first words she ever spoke to me, “Sweetie grow an ass and you will be one hell of a ball player”. She told me this when I was seven and playing T-ball with her granddaughter. I remember finding more pleasure in the curse words she used instead of the underhanded compliment she was giving me. This first exchange best sums up our relationship. No matter what developmental period I was in she gave me honesty. She never gave me fairy tales or dodged questions.
It was amazing how she balanced her granddaughter and me. My grandparents lived out of state and I would fantasize that Mrs. May was my own grandmother. Truthfully sporting events in small towns are designed to weigh a child’s worth within their family. The more relatives that came to watch you the more value you held in your family. Yet Mrs. May refused to treat me like her grandchild. She would dote on my friend the way a grandparent should and then look me in the eyes and give me practical advice, like how I should grow an ass to have a more powerful swing. It was her honesty that drew me to her. I was not her grandchild so she would not treat me like one, but I did intrigue her. Her interest in me was attention enough.
As we grew older Mrs. May became an amusement to the rest of my group of friends. She was an awkward transition to a hysterical story. There was the time she walked in on us at a sleepover when we were in high school. She lived across the street from her granddaughter and was known for barging in. We were discussing who had lost their virginity. One of the girls had just said, “I’ve been deflowered” when Mrs. May opened the door.
“Dear God girls, do not call it ‘deflowered’. Your sexual organs are not precious petals. You have had sex and hopefully you will have more meaningful and better sex with each partner you take”.
She then immediately walked out of the room. Her only judgment was the metaphor used. She hated metaphors. Mrs. May thought they were only used by people who were inadequate at making proper descriptions, people who relied on familiarity to get their meaning across not actuality. She despised people who could not experience life and appreciate the simple authenticity of it without adding unnecessary details. She loved to say, “Metaphors are for the idiots who cannot understand what just happened to them.”
After high school I came back to my hometown often, not to see friends, but to visit with Mrs. May. By this time she already had two minor strokes and her family was afraid to let her drive on her own. Every Sunday I would take her grocery shopping. After that I would take her to The Movie Gallery to pick out some absurd rental. We had great range, everything from “Citizen Kane” to “Taxi Driver”.
The best part of the entire Sunday was watching Mrs. May smoke. Mrs. May loved to smoke, but obviously out of their concern for her health her family made her quit. I would let her smoke two cigarettes in my car, one on the way to the grocers and one on the way back from the movie rental. Her hands would shake and she would get ash all over the passenger side but I never cared. I seriously loved how happy smoking made her.
This memory of letting Mrs. May smoke for two years straight every Sunday brings another rush of guilt, and I look around to see if anyone has noticed my remorse. Then I feel guiltier for thinking that somebody would notice me when they are overwhelmed by their own grief. I suck.
Hell, someone had noticed my guilt ridden face. My friend’s mother and Mrs. May’s daughter comes up to me and puts her arm around me and says, “You know, my Mom found you really entertaining.” All I can think to say back to this woman whose mother is dying is, “I found her pretty entertaining as well.” I suck.
As she walks away I go back to Mrs. May and our Sunday outings.
Remembering those afternoon grocery/movie trips I can’t help but smirk again. It was those Sunday’s that really helped me to understand Mrs. May and why she said such bizarre things to me. One Sunday when I was still a freshman in college Mrs. May looked at me in the middle of the grocery store while I was searching for the cheap q-tips (Mrs. May only bought the “value” brand items) and asked, “Have you taken any lovers”. This question would become a common one between Mrs. May and myself. The nonchalant way she asked entertained me more than the question itself. I always answered the same way. I would tell her no whether I had or not because I knew she was really only using this question as segue into her own memories. Truthfully, I was riveted by her stories. That same trip she divulged that when I was in middle school she was having an affair with my principal. Her advice to me was, “There is a difference between husbands and lovers. Experience will teach you that”. At that moment I realized this “matriarch of the family” just wanted someone she could be frank with and pass on the real lessons she had learned in life.
After the grocery store we went on to the Movie Gallery as normal and she picked out “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie” starring Dame Maggie Smith. This was post Harry Potter fever so I was excited to watch professor McGonagall as a young sassy private school teacher of an all girl school instead of the aging sassy private school teacher of an all magical school that I had associated her with. During a pivotal scene Miss Brodie reveals her teaching mantra, “Give me a girl of impressionable age and I will have her for life.” When I turned to see Mrs. May’s reaction to that line she was looking at me squarely and smiling. She knew she had me. Out of two years of groceries and movies the only movie that ever made a repeat rental was “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”.
Mrs. May passed away that night in the ICU surrounded by her family. About two weeks later I received a call from Mrs. May’s daughter asking if I would like Mrs. May’s Movie Gallery membership. She said she had thought it was fitting, a phrase I’m sure she has had to use a lot lately. Of course I accepted it and had a marathon repeat of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”. I realize how pissed Mrs. May would be at that parallel. I have created a metaphor of her memory. Miss Brodie is my analogy of Mrs. May and that is because I still rely on the familiarity of Mrs. May and not her actuality. I understand a bit more why metaphors are needed; sometimes we are idiots who cannot understand what just happened to us.