I had been off the plane for all of ten minutes when I found myself in the dark at a mobile park home sitting in a car with the windows down waiting for my aunt as she argued with my uncle who lives there. Ah, welcome home.
Away from the mobile homes and into East San Jose, which is made up either of the hood or old old people. This place used to be an orchard decades ago during my mom's childhood and it's been overrun by one-story dusty concrete shopping plazas every since I was a kid. But in a little house looking out to the slightly green, more yellow foothills is where my grandma lives with the rest of the old timers or the old timer's offspring--all which moved here during the babyboom of the early 50s.
And Grandma. The monarch. Now bent and unsure of herself in her aging 84 year-old body, and everyone is whispering that this is a little too familiar with the downside of time and life. But then, when her strength is up, she starts talking as her usual ramblings go and suddenly she's recalling, "My mom always asked me why I was so busty. Louie [my grandpa] would say, "Tell her it's because I play with them,"" and Grandma does that laugh with the little wink, and I'm shaking my head and laughing too.
Time. Things seems to have long memories in San Jose. Neighbors and families tend to stay put, as does the clutter in this house. Tons of paperwork, hats, cat toys, dark wood furniture, tiny American flags, Grandma's paintings, old trunks, ect. Everything has a place because there is no space. And I admit that I snapped at my mom for digging around my stuff and taking inventory when I just have a simple backpack in a tiny corner and a package of socks and cards she handed me. Everyone touches everyone's stuff around here, whether it's moving it or adjusting it, and it's a weird pet peeve for me.
And Mom. We are a family of too many Chiefs and not enough Indians and she too bosses them around like they boss her around. She's been happy to be here on this trip; getting out of the lonely house in the desert with her husband away, and here where people need her and love her. It's been really nice to see her and I see that spark of my mom that seems to be around more when she's back in San Jose.
We, my mom, my grandma, and I, went to the local lake where my family lived and farmed (when there wasn't a lake) about a century ago. The long grass, the windy hills, the gossip Grandma restates of gamblers, cheaters, and bums--which she talks about with a hint of glee. And everything seems less complicated here. Just natures and the smell of horses and the long memories of farming, playing cards, and living with pride or scruples. These are the roots. When I say I come from farmers who wanted a better life I literally mean farmers who lives 15 minutes away from my Grandma's house. A long memory.
And it gives me pause to think about life and my own desires from it. The farmers wanted a home and they moved up into them. They wanted an education (my grandpa only finished 8th grade) and their daughters got some college, and the grandchildren got college degrees. A long history of wanting more.
But there is pride in the middle class and blue collar. I'm more unhappy with my progress than they are. They're simply happy I'm paying my bills. We come from stock of department store workers and cannery workers, and when it comes to what is viewed as successful, my grandma only cares if a person, (1) "had money, but they worked hard for it," (2) if they were "clean" as in, clean shaven, clean clothes, neat and tidy, (3) were are are "intelligent".
After the lake day my mom and I drove around old San Jose and in a moment of spontaneity we ended up at the Hay's Mansion. We had my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary there, but it's been awhile. My mom and I looked around, tried opening the doors, and enjoyed the richness of it.
I have written extensively in this blog about my want of wealth, and I want to take a final note to define it. I can't stand opulence. I can't stand people who are disposable of things that work because they need things that are new. I can't stand people who won't have a conversation with me or are condescending towards me because they think what they do is too complex for me to understand. I love for people to travel and I am genuinely happy for those who get the chance to see things, and go places, and get to be in the world. But I can't stand people who make you feel inadequate because you've never been to Paris or Europe. And don't get me started on people who have fine China and white couches. Why the fuck would anyone ever buy a white couch?
Opulence, condensation, and snobbery. That's the type of wealth I don't want. The wealth I want is opportunity. The opportunity to pay for gas and the dentist. To argue about which movie or musical to go to, not argue about whether or not we have the money to go. To have health care and air conditioning. The opportunity to travel to the little places and stay for a long time. The opportunity to not be afraid of how to pay bills and still live a life. I want to go into Anthropologie and buy a few candles instead of agonizing over one $16 candle that I don't buy. I always want to show up with flowers for my grandma or little gifts for my friends that comes from the heart. I want to be able to donate to museums, to artists, to humanitarian projects. Hell, I just want to eat 3 square meals a day, which I haven't done since Easter. When I say I want more wealth what I'm really saying is that I want more life, more living.
End note on money and wealth for this blog.
Back to Grandma.
She is getting older. But despite the hysteria, no I don't think she has early Parkinson's, no I don't think she had early Alzheimer's, and it FUCKING PISSING ME OFF the panic my Aunt Weez puts onto my grandma that something is wrong. Yes, she's having more trouble walking and she tires a little more and she talks a little softer. She's 84. It's called getting older. And maybe something is wrong, but I'd rather get the results from the neurologist before Dr. Internet Says freaks her out.
My Grandma. In her words:
--"Always carry water with you. You never know when you'll need to take a pill."
--"You have a nice figure. I used to be as skinny as you but busty. And my mom would ask me, "Why are you so busty?" and Louie [my grandpa] would say, "Tell her it's because I play with them."" (Grandma laughing with that twinkle wink in her eye).
--"With faith I take on life's challenges."
--Grandma: "I need an envelop" [grabs one and hands it to me]
Me: "Grandma, we have to pay for this."
Grandma: "It's ok, just hold it. I shop here all the time."
[Me shoplifting for the first time ever.]
--Grandma: "Look at the ducks. Are they Canadian geese?"
Mom: "I don't know, I haven't seen their visas."
--[Mom finding a $10 bill in the armrest]
Mom: "I always like finding 10s."
Me: "I always like finding 100s."
Mom: "Me too."
And so that was family. Lots of pot roast, sweets, walking around the old neighborhood which still lacks sidewalks, and hugs goodbye. I love those ladies. And it's always hard to leave my Grandma and her stories of the ugly cousin who married the prostitute with no teeth, how her sister Ramona would sneak out the house and got knocked up, how so and so was so ugly/clean, all the good food she's eaten, the dancing her and my grandpa did throughout their lives, about her family being high on pills at the cannery, and our own little conspiracy/secret of writing letters to Regis Philbin.
I love that crazy broad.
Well, on the train! Friend entry tomorrow.
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