Jeannie Out of the Bottle - Barbara Eden [7]
Yet these women were also warm and loving, and I’ll always remember how lucky I felt as a little girl to have my mother’s hand to hold on to, and my grandmother’s as well. My grandmother would hold my hand loosely, my mother more firmly, but either way, they both made me feel safe and loved.
My mother was the baby of her family and was particularly close to her sister, Margie, who lived in San Marino, not far from LA (of which more later). Margie was as pretty as my mother, possessed a vivid, whimsical imagination, and christened everyone in the family with secret fairy names. I was dubbed “Music.” My mother was “Smile.” And Aunt Margie called herself “Mischief.”
I guess I must have inherited Aunt Margie’s fanciful imagination, because from the time I was a small child, I had three fantasy friends: Dagolyn, a girl; Good Johnny, a boy; and Bad Johnny, who I believed lived under my bed. Dagolyn and the two Johnnies were always a rich and vibrant part of my childhood imagination, though I loved Good Johnny best. Looking back, I can’t help wondering at the coincidence that my current husband, the love of my life, is named Jon.
Margie and my mother loved practical jokes and were always playing tricks on each other and the rest of the family. One time, my father (who didn’t like anyone to look at his feet, and always made sure to wear slippers or shoes) was fast asleep, and Margie and my mother sneaked into his room. While he was snoring away, they pulled back the bedcovers and painted his toenails red. When he woke up and caught sight of his bright red toenails, he went ballistic, but then calmed down and laughed uproariously.
Another time, one of my uncles, who worked for the government, had to attend a crucial business meeting, and when he wasn’t looking, Margie and my mother sewed up one of his pant legs so he couldn’t get it on. They were always playing practical jokes like that, and I was always vastly entertained by all their pranks, however childish.
My grandfather, Charles Benjamin Franklin, was a loving and kind man who took great care of me. At the end of most days, he’d put his snap-brimmed hat on, say, “Get your hat, Barbara Jean” (which is what my grandparents and everyone else called me back then), take me by the hand, and set off for the grocery store with me.
On the way back, he’d always stop at a bar and have a beer; I had a soda. One day I came home and informed my grandmother that I’d drunk a whole glass of beer all by myself. Such was the force of the conviction in my voice that she believed me and practically had a fit until my grandfather convinced her otherwise.
My grandfather had beautiful reddish brown curly hair, and I remember when I was about three and asked, “Can I wash your hair, Grandpa?” and he let me. Even then, it was clear that he couldn’t refuse me anything.
One day I begged him to buy me a pair of red shoes, and he did. When my grandmother saw them, she screamed, “Charles!” and whisked them away from me, putting them out on the fence. My grandfather and I exchanged rueful glances, but both of us knew better than to go against my grandmother’s iron will. By morning they had vanished, and I never saw them again.
Another time, I overheard my mother and my grandmother saying that they were going to the movies. Off they went, leaving me at home with my grandfather. I went over to him, tugged on his coat-tail, and said, “Grandpa?” Without looking up from his newspaper, he said, “Yes, child?” Encouraged, I went on, “Grandpa, would you take me to the movies?” Without a moment’s pause he said, “Yes, child.” Then he put on his hat, and off we went together.
At the movies, we won a raffle, and brought home our prize, a case of Dr Pepper, so we couldn’t hide our outing from my grandmother after all.