Another hazard about visiting our great Aunt Cassie was her mother-in-law, whom we always called Grammy Ida. Grammy Ida's maiden name was Rafford and she was Scottish through and through. By the time we were old enough to meander down the road on our own to visit Aunt Cassie, Grammy Ida had reached the ripe old age of ninety-five and she was all bent over from a combination of old age and arthritis. She walked with the aid of a wooden cane which she used to hit anything and everything that got in her way, be it kids, animals or inanimate objects.
Her white hair, which she wore pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, was so thin that you could see her pink scalp shining through the strands. She wore black, wire-rimmed thick glasses and when she looked at you, her watery blue eyes were magnified so many times that they appeared three times larger than they really were. We used to refer to her amongst ourselves as "Grammy Spider" because that's what she really looked like to us. Her arms and legs were reed thin and she was usually dressed all in black. She constantly had a sweater or small throw draped around her stooped shoulders and her body was round and soft like the body of a spider.
She only weighed about a hundred pounds, if that, and she looked like a gentle breeze would blow her over. Most of her facial skin had slipped down around her neck where it had gathered in a huge wattle and we loved to watch her try to chew gum. The loose skin on her jaw would ripple and jiggle, just like the skin on a turkey's neck when it ate and overcome by laughter, we'd slid out the kitchen door and collapse laughing onto Aunt Cassie's lawn.
She'd worn ill-fitting dentures for years and often when she tried to talk, the top plate would slip down and rest on the bottom plate, but she'd keep right on talking. One never really knew what she'd said and she'd reach up and push her upper plate back where it belonged and turn and glare at us like it was all our fault. Though she was old and feeble, her mind was still very sharp and she always knew who we were and the fact that she didn't like us.
She used to spend most of her days sitting next to the wood stove in the kitchen in her old rocking chair. She loved to read "True Story" and "True Confessions" magazines and she often dozed off right in the middle of a story. Suddenly, she'd awaken with a start and a couple of snorts, look wildly around her, gather her shawl a little closer about her and then resume reading as though nothing had happened.
Great Grammy Ida had one really bad fault as far as we were concerned. She didn't like kids, any kids. If she happened to be sitting in the kitchen when we came in, she'd turn in her old rocking chair and glare at us through the heat of the woodstove for a couple of minutes. Upon recognizing us, her false teeth would slip and click as she muttered to herself and then she'd rock back and forth in her chair until she'd gained enough momentum to get up. Finally in a standing position, she'd teeter back and forth in her tattered slippers until she felt strong enough to walk and then she'd scurry off to the sanctity of her bedroom, muttering epithets aimed at us, all the way. She always wore a pair of black felt slippers and I can still hear the sound her feet made as she scurried across the linoleum kitchen floor to the privacy of her bedroom. It always sounded to me like a drunken crab as it scuttled across the rocks on a beach.
I don't know why we were so afraid of her but, we really were. She rarely ever spoke directly to us. Most of the time, she wouldn't even answer the door when we came to visit. It was her laugh that got to you most though. If something amused her, she wouldn't laugh in a "normal" way like most people, she cackled. The sound of her laugh would cause the hair to rise up on the back of your neck and you'd suddenly find your feet edging towards the door of their own volition. You got the distinct impression that you were viewing a real live witch.
Her bedroom was located at the northern end of the house and she commanded an excellent view up over Sutherland's hill to our house. She always knew when we were coming down the road to visit Aunt Cassie and she made plans for each and every visit. If no one else was home, she'd lie in wait for us like a general waiting to spring a surprise attack on his enemy.
When you walked into the farmyard in the middle of a sunny afternoon in July, it was easy to be fooled by the serenity of the place. The chickens were clucking happily around the hen house. The cows were lying down in the shade of the barn chewing their cuds. The pigs were nestled behind the barn in the mud with their pink ears flopped over their eyes. The chickens were cackling softly to each other in the quiet afternoon. Everything was sleeping and at peace but not Grammy Ida! She was lying in wait, ready to put all her military tactics into action against us.
Upon hearing our few timid knocks on the back door, she'd open the door a crack, peer out at us and demand. "What do you want?" Or more often than not, she wouldn't even wait to see what we wanted. She'd just sic their dog Rex on us. He wouldn't bite but, he did put an awful scare into us.
Her other favorite sports were to whack you with her cane or spray us with the garden hose. But her very favorite one of all was to throw the entire contents of her piss pot out through the screen door at us. It was no use going home to complain to mother about this vile treatment because she would just shrug her shoulders and tell us that if we didn't like our treatment then we could just stay home.
I still remember the many nights my brothers, sisters and I spent lying in bed trying to dream up the ultimate plans for revenge on Great Grammy Ida. Somehow those plans never reached fruition for one reason or another because we knew that if Mother got wind of our plans, she'd tan our asses good and we couldn't chance that. We always had the comforting thought that every time Great Grammy Ida did something awful to us; "God" would intercede on our behalf but "God" sure took his own sweet time in answering our prayers.
Great Grammy Ida lived to be ninety-nine years old. And to this day, whenever I go past Aunt Cassie's house, I fully expect Great Grammy Ida to come scurrying out of the house with her piss pot clutched firmly in her knarled old blue, veined hands, muttering "Where are those little bastards now?" as her ill-fitting teeth jumped and slipped about in her mouth.
Martha Stevens-David
Martha Stevens-David Column Magic City
Email: lmdmsd@megalink.net
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