Nanny Gee and the Homemade Paper Straw

Warren ran away several times, farther each time, until, the last I heard, he was “moving to Montana.” He’s my cousin and we grew up together, both of us plump, but while I was dark, Warren was a towhead, with a perpetual sunburn. We spent hot summer days at his house, in that new subdivision of neat brick homes and fenced yards north of town, riding our bikes to Dodie’s Little Store for ice cream sandwiches and popsicles (I even had a blue bike there, from Uncle Earl and Nanny Gee); watching The Twilight Zone on television (Mama would not let me watch it at home); or reading Archie, Casper and Superman comic books from Warren’s collection. Sometimes we would sneak coffee with lots of evaporated milk. Other days we spent at my wooden frame house, downtown. This was in the mid-60s, before the Interstate cut through our South Louisiana town, when there still was a downtown. When Warren visited me, we took turns riding my green bike; or sometimes Mama brought us to a movie downtown (the ones you could get in free with RC Cola bottle caps); or set up the slip ‘n slide in the back yard so we could cool off. Once we spent an entire afternoon writing a poem about hating school and how we were never going back. Another time we decided to go on a diet, which consisted of writing down everything we ate for a week. That was a long list!

Nanny Gee’s house was also where we spent the night when my youngest baby brother was born. All 6 of us, and one a baby. She spread sheets and blankets over the sofa and air mattresses, so we could all sleep in the living room together. It always smelled faintly of smoke in there. When Nanny Gee woke us the next morning to tell us we had a new baby brother, I was so excited I ran to Warren’s room and jumped on his bed to wake him. Nanny Gee was sometimes a little stricter than Mama, but that time she let me jump. She knew how happy I was about the baby. We had pancakes with Log Cabin syrup for breakfast, to celebrate.

 By the time Warren moved out to the Montana, he was already a grown man, with a family, so it wasn’t really running away, and I hadn’t seen him in years anyway. (I don’t keep up attachments well, and worry that’s a character flaw.)  But the way Warren moved felt like he ran away. One day he lived with his family about 45 miles away, in Robert, Louisiana, and then his sister told my sister he was moving his wife and children to Montana. Even his sister was surprised. He probably had a normal reason for moving. Warren was a warehouse manager at a Wal-Mart distribution center. He was probably just transferred.

Warren was good-natured and kind, like Uncle Earl and Nanny Gee, who was Mama’s sister. Mama and her siblings got along, all five of them, from Uncle Joe, the oldest, to Mama, the baby. Harsh words were never spoken among them, and when Maw-Maw Gert and Paw-Paw died, they all agree to give the old family home outside White Castle, Louisiana, to Uncle Joe, since he was the oldest and had been living there anyway.

 Daddy’s family was another story. They were always mad at one another about something, except my confused, quiet grandmother. Daddy’s sister, my Aunt Mattie, almost ran over him with her big yellow Cordoba in the stadium parking lot after my college graduation. I could barely see Daddy’s brown suit through the mob of curious black-robed graduates watching the chase, but I never saw Daddy run so fast. Even when he was angry and trying to catch one of us.

Mattie didn’t like many people, but she loved me and was gentle with me. If she didn’t like you, best stay out of her way. She hated to be called “Miss Mattie” or “Aunt Mattie.” “Just Mattie is fine,” she would growl, loudly if she had to tell you twice. I used to spend time with her when Mama went to the hospital when her back went out and the doctor put her in traction. Mattie was fun. She was always a large woman and wore loose-fitting knit pantsuits, with big pockets for her cigarettes, keys and money. I don’t think she owned a purse. She carried a small shiny pistol in a Kleenex box under the front seat of her Cordoba. Mattie didn’t worry all the time about gaining weight, like Mama did. She and I would go to What-A-Burger or Morrison’s Cafeteria and eat whatever we wanted, even desserts and Cokes to drink. She also had a real slot machine. When Mattie and I played, she let me keep all the quarters I won.

When I was older Mattie told me how Daddy was grandma’s oldest, her “golden child,” destined to be a priest, and he could do no wrong in Grandma’s eyes. Grandma never made Daddy do chores, and he would tease Mattie about having to wash dishes, hang clothes, or feed the chickens. Daddy also called Mattie names like “Mattie Fattie.” He probably deserved a good chasing with a car. I don’t think she really intended to hit him with that big old Cordoba, or she would have done so. At least she didn’t wave her pistol at him. Not that time, anyway.

Mama, Nanny Gee, and their brothers were all kind, generous, and gentle, so unlike most of Daddy’s family. Daddy’s father, Awful Old Grandpa, as I called him, was so mean he simply refused to die. I wished him dead every time Mama made me visit him in the hospital, for the nine days he lingered. (By the time he died, the room smelled as bad as Awful Old Grandpa himself—like nasty cigar smoke, dirty clothes and gum disease.) I was almost 18, but generally still did what Mama and others expected of me, a childhood habit I finally broke years later.

“This is the end of his life,” Mama whispered to me outside his hospital room. “He’s dying and needs his family close by.” Why? I wondered. So he can pay us ten cents for working all day picking pecans; or swat at us with his walking stick (which was a big tree limb, since he was too cheap to buy a real cane); or let his dog jump on me because I was afraid.

No, all Grandpa needed to do was die, and he took his sweet time about it. The only good thing he ever did for us children was save his RC Cola bottle caps for Mama.

I’m always afraid I inherited some of Awful Old Grandpa’s bad-tempered meanness, and it’s waiting to show itself. My brothers all manage their tempers. Daddy is much better than Grandpa was, but still had enough of a temper that I would quickly run outside to play when I heard the edge in his voice. Mama was a strong influence on Daddy and my brothers. She was kind and gentle, but could be firm when she needed to be.

Daddy told me a story one day of how he sassed Grandma once, and Awful Old Grandpa “slapped me so hard I wet my pants.” I was as horrified by Daddy’s matter-of-fact telling as I was by the story itself.

After Grandpa finally died, all his money disappeared. It was, of course, Grandma’s money (she was already gone). Grandma was from a wealthy, genteel and educated family. (Grandpa’s family was none of those things.) No one would admit to knowing anything about the lost money, but I always suspected Awful Old Grandpa gave it to the priests at his church, so someone would pray for his miserable soul.

The loss of my imaginary inheritance bothered me for a few weeks (I thought I deserved something for all those years Grandpa let his dog jump on me). But then I thought about what Nanny Gee told me when they gave Maw-Maw Gert’s old house to Uncle Joe. “None of us need a house and Joe needs a place to live.” I realized I didn’t need Awful Old Grandpa’s money, and, since I didn’t even like him, why should I want anything from him. After that, I didn’t care about the money anymore. As I got older, I realized that Grandpa really did have a rough childhood, as Mama always said.

No matter how often I remind myself I look and act like Mama’s people, I still fear the possibility of meanness inside me. Once when I was about 8 years old I was staying at Nanny Gee’s. Mama was in the hospital with her back in traction, and had given me a white paper straw, a Magic Straw she told me, and said I could see her face when I used it. She knew how much I missed her when she was in the hospital. Warren and I were at the kitchen table, drinking 7-Up from his Superman glasses, trying to see who could finish last. He kept asking to use my straw. “Come on, let me use it. I could drink slower with a straw.” I told him to wait and he could have it as soon as I was finished, for our second race.

 Poor Warren just sat there, his sunburned face eager and his brown eyes big and excited. “Let me use it,” he kept asking.

I drank very slowly, “As soon as I am through,” I promised, and looked down at the red ketchup stain on his white tee shirt, from our earlier snack of potato chips and ketchup. Nanny Gee must have been listening and brought Warren a straw she had made by taping a piece of white paper into a small tube. “Here, you use this one, son. That one is Marina’s. Her Mama gave it to her.” That made me think about Mama. Warren looked briefly at Nanny Gee’s homemade paper straw and put it down on the table. He looked at me again and smiled as I slurped in the last of my 7-Up.

“See, you’re finished. Now it’s my turn.” Warren reached for the straw.

I still don’t know why, but I looked at his eager face and that ketchup stain, and I tore up that Magic Straw and threw the pieces on the floor. Poor Warren was so surprised, he jumped up, crumpled up the straw Nanny Gee made, and threw it on the floor too. The look on his face made me so ashamed. He looked sad and disappointed and about to cry. I wished he would look mad at me. But he just looked hurt. Then he ran to his bedroom and slammed the door.

I felt terrible, and was afraid Nanny Gee would scold me, or, even worse, call Daddy to take me home. She should have. But she only picked up the torn paper from the floor and said, “Your Mama will be home soon. I know she will.” Then she left to see about Warren, and I went out to the back yard.

The Tiger Drive-in faced the back of the house. It wasn’t close, but the screen was so big, we often watched movies out there, trying to imagine what the actors were saying. It was fun with Warren, but that night I was alone and missed my Mama and was sorry I had been mean and made Warren cry. Besides being my cousin, he was my best friend. I sat in the warm, damp grass, not caring about the “red ants” that were out there, waiting to find me and bite my plump little legs.

After a while, the back door slammed and Warren appeared with two glasses of grape juice. “Why are you sitting on the ground? You know the red ants are going to bite you. Let’s sit on the swings and watch the movie. I think that Beatles’ movie is about to come on. Here, you hold these. I’m going back inside for the cupcakes. They’re chocolate and Mom said we can each have two. She just iced them.” I was glad Warren wasn’t mad. He looked happy again, but I didn’t know what to say. So I told him, “Bring your transistor radio. Maybe they’ll play Leader of the Pack and we can sing. I’ll even let you sing my favorite part.”

Warren giggled as he ran inside, and, just like that, we were good again. He really was special, like Nanny Gee and Uncle Earl.

No, Warren had nothing to run away from. But I do. Not that it’s possible to escape who you are, or might be.

There have been times in my life when I did the right thing, even when it was hard. Perhaps I am at least a little like Mama, Nanny Gee, and Maw-Maw Gert. When Nathan and I had been married for a few years, I lost a baby. I was about 5 months pregnant and had seen sonograms of him, and heard his little heart beat. Then I lost him and kind of fell apart, for months, but it felt much longer. Nathan didn’t know what to do, so he left. Mama, Mattie and Nanny Gee took care of me, and tried to distract me and make me eat. Nanny Gee took me with her one day to Maw-Maw’s old house. She was going to clean for Uncle Joe and told me she wanted some company. Poor Mama probably needed a break from me. Nanny Gee stopped at Winnie’s Drive-In, just outside of Plaquemine, for some ice cream. It felt like being a kid again, when we would all ride to Maw-Maw’s together in Mama’s station wagon. Warren and I would sing “Warren’s a mess, Marina’s a mess,” as we drove over the noisy bridge into Plaquemine. I even felt happy enough to help Nanny Gee clean for Uncle Joe.

Everything was fine until it was time to leave. I had volunteered to clean the windows (even the window-fan window, where I used to watch for Maw-Maw’s neighbor and his cute grandson. The one Maw-Maw did not want me talking to.) After the grimy window-cleaning job, my hands needed washing. I used the sink in the steamy kitchen (Maw-Maw’s kitchen always seemed to be hot) and the orange dish detergent Nanny Gee had brought for cleaning. The hot water faucet squeaked as it always had, but the water and soap felt good on my hands. I washed my hands once and dried them on a clean dishtowel. Then I looked at them and washed them again. I did this several times, until the dishtowel was wet and I noticed Nanny Gee at the kitchen door, watching me. I don’t know why I kept washing my hands. Some would say it was to keep me from thinking about the baby I’d lost, or that I was losing my husband. But all I knew was that I had to keep washing until I knew they were clean. (Months later I finally got over being so sad that I washed and washed my hands. But it was a hard thing to do.)

Nanny Gee saw me notice her, smoothed the front of her striped knit blouse, and made herself smile. All she said was, “I’ll just go pack up the car while you get your things together. Come on out when you’re ready.” Nanny Gee was good about knowing and doing what you needed her to do, without talking about it. Which was good that day. If she had hugged me or asked me what was wrong, I would have cried. Something I didn’t allow myself to do. Had she tried to stop me, I would have needed to wash my hands even longer. Nanny Gee did just the right thing for me.

Reggie was my high-school sweetheart, and I thought about him often during my hand-washing days. Thought about him and made myself not call him. I heard he had finally found someone, after his bad first marriage, and was about to get married. I knew if I called Reggie, we might get together again, all those years after high school. I needed someone like Reggie, who had once at a party done a silly little dance to Those Were the Days, to make me smile. He always said he only wanted to make me happy. I thought if I could see Reggie again, he might call me “Bug Eyes,” as he used to, for the curious colors of my eyes, and make all my sadness be gone. Reggie would have come for me, I know it. He had called me before I married Nathan, to tell me I was making a mistake. Perhaps I should have held on tighter in high school, when Reggie called me his Princess at Spring Formal, in my shiny blue prom dress, with a silver ribbon in my hair. But in my hand-washing days, it was too late for us. It would have been selfish to call him because I needed him. Reggie deserved to be happy. I had hurt him before and would do so again. So, as much as I wanted to, I never called. That would have been mean.

Besides, Nathan did come back, as I always thought he would. So I suppose, as they say, things worked out for the best. I still wonder sometimes about Reggie.

Nanny Gee is gone now, and I never thought to tell her how much I loved her and appreciated everything she did for me. She wasn’t one for talking about feelings. I couldn’t even be there with Nanny Gee when she died, in the cardiac care unit. They knew she was dying but would not let me in until visiting hours, and then it was too late. This was a Catholic hospital, and I’ve come to realize the Catholic Church does what it wants to, because it can. When I get to Heaven, I’m going to look for Mama and Nanny Gee and have coffee with them. I hope they are young again, like in the picture on the mantle at Maw-Maw Gert’s house. They looked like movie stars from the 1940s, smiling and pretty, dark hair in waves around their faces. Mama was olive-skinned and wearing a bright yellow dress. Nanny Gee was lighter-skinned, but with dark red lipstick, and a pale green dress. Maybe she will have a spice drop cake for me. Nanny Gee made the best cakes.

I will finally be able to thank Nanny Gee for not scolding me, when she should have, about that paper straw. And especially for being kind and leaving me to my hand washing in Maw-Maw’s kitchen, all those years ago.