My Grandmother Would Drive
My grandmother could make a biscuit taste like steak.
And she did everything from 'scratch'.
Including making her own soap too.
The only thing I disliked,
That my Grandmother Clara ever did...
Was to get her driver's license.
My grandmother would drive,
And have an entire conversation...
Without looking at the road!
I had heard rumors of this...
But to witness it,
Was right out of Six Flags.
Or Disney World.
Don't ask me how she did this.
I was too busy trying to keep myself alive.
That 'imaginary' brake on the passenger side,
Of my grandmother's car...
Had worn a hole through the carpeted car floor.
And my grandmother never got a speeding ticket either.
She turned to me and asked why I had the door handle,
In my hand when speeding along the highway.
I did not realize I had pulled the handle from the door.
She frightened the 'hell' out of me.
'Grandma, I gotta use the bathroom.'
~And...? ~
'Pee.'
~You bet not be doin' that in my car, boy!
Why didn't you say somethin' when we were at the carwash? ~
'I didn't think I had to THEN, grandma.
But driving with you has proved me wrong.
I think I've got to throw up too! '
The only thing I disliked,
That my Grandmother Clara ever did...
Was to get her driver's license.
She said she didn't need to wait,
For my grandfather to take her anywhere...
She wanted to go.
And rarely did I see my grandmother,
Using the rearview mirror.
Or...
Keep her eyes on the road.
'Grandma, I gotta use the bathroom.
I'm serious.'
~And...? ~
'Pee.'
~You bet not be doin' that in my car, boy!
Why didn't you say somethin' when we were at the carwash?
You slowing me. You slowing me down. Geeesssshhh.
Precious Lord...hmmm hmmm...Lead me...hmmm.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
Grandmother Told Me So
The declaration has been spoken,
For Grandmother told me so.
The darkeys have got their fetlocks broken,
For Grandmother told me so.
Oh, won't they have a lot of iron on hand!
And when the news travels,
Oh, won't it be grand!
'Twill sweep like a sugarcane over the land,
For Grandmother told me so.
American Eagle! hysterical bird!
Oh, flap your wing and crow!
The slaves are embellished--yes, that's the word,
For Grandmother told me so!
There's curious times in that ur section,
For Grandmother told me so.
They think they will have a resurrection,
For Grandmother told me so.
The penholders raving like persons insane --
The darkeys in exodus, raising cane,
And singing like martingales after a rain,
For Grandmother told me so.
But President Abe forgot Kentucky,
For Grandmother told me so.
And Geneses, too -- and that's unlucky,
For Grandmother told me so.
Malicious champagne will be open'd in vain,
Until we shall break the last ox-yoke and chain --
Till through the Benighted States freedom shall reign,
For Grandmother told me so.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Poem for my Grandmother
By the time
I knew grandmother
She was no more
It took sisteen-years
To know
Of her pains
On that sick bed,
My sisteen-year-old
Knowingness was shocked
To hear mum narrate her past
Grandmother as indeed a great
Woman n her life time.
Each time I go to her grave
I break down and cried for her,
I wish grandmother saw
The best of me
Before she was taken to the beyond
I know she would be proud of me
Let this poem of mine
Be for her,
My great grandmother.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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Macramé
When she would macramé,
I stayed and watched.
Taking her needles,
And attaching small knots!
Making crisp doilies...
With different patterns,
Little mats she would starch.
Amazing my curiosity,
At the speed she delivered such art!
When she would macramé,
I would ask her how it was done.
She took my hands in between hers...
Until I alone did start!
She noticed soon I got extremely bored,
And my grandmother made me stop!
'Boy...
You something else!
Why you so nosy? '
'I ain't nosy, grandma.
You got enough apples to make a pie today? '
I would ask.
And she would just shake her head.
With nothing from her to me to say...
She would hum and continue doing,
Her fast paced macramé.
Dedicated:
Clara Louise Countryman Pertillar
My grandmother
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You See...There Was Just Too Many Of Us!
I smell my grandmother's molasses cookies.
Deep dish apple and peach pies.
And grape preserves she would make.
And my own mother's beautiful hair,
Before she grayed.
And 'overnight'...
Seemed to have aged.
As I sit and reminisce.
About so many things I miss!
I see my grandfather,
Working in the backyard.
In the shed.
Where he 'diagnosed' the engine...
Of an old truck.
With every part of it laid in pieces.
Each of them,
Carefully spread to keep them near.
'Don't...
Move,
A thing!
Or pick it up...
Because you're curious!
I got my eye on ya! '
I hear my father say...
'It is time to get your haircut, boy.
And when you sit in that barber's chair...
You bet not make a fuss!
And don't say nothing to annoy! '
I remember my aunts and uncles...
Rushing to pick apples, grapes and pears.
From an old pig farm,
Where Chappelle Gardens now sits.
In a neighborhood in Hartford, Connecticut.
I remember this as if yesterday!
And the whippings we all shared.
Regardless...
Of who or who was not actually there!
No one was spared.
'I don't care who did what!
All of you are getting it! '
My grandmother would say!
I remember rolling my eyes...
With wishes I could run away!
~Grandma, I didn't do anything.
It was her! ~
*No it wasn't it was him! *
**No it wasn't it was them! **
You see...
There was just too many of us!
And my grandmother didn't really care.
She just wanted all of us to know...
The punishment she dealt,
Would be quick.
Honest.
And fair!
Note:
Dedicated to my wonderful family.
When we (many of us) all lived in either Stowe Village,
And/or Bellevue Square.
Tenement projects.
In separate buildings AND apartments.
Back in 'the day'.
Love you!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Though I was a mother at 21, being a grandmother makes the whole thing absolutely normal and gorgeous. The relief, the joy of being a grandmother is wonderful.
quote by Joanna Lumley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Increased Crescendo
The 'ifs' have passed...
As some from the 'old school'
Hold memory contests in bravado!
Remaining stifled, unproductive
And bonding into stupors of delusion...
They are in harmony and greet themselves,
As pioneers of some lost mission they survived.
Neighborhood jive, small talk and booze
Can do that!
I chose to take a nose dive...
And plunged myself right into the unknown.
With my faith in tow!
I discovered how to do that...
After riding along with my grandmother,
Who had recently gotten her driver's license
AND a new car!
I was stunned by both revelations.
Buckled in and scared for my life!
She sang hymns and loved to speed!
My grandmother taught me many lessons,
In a unique and adventurous ways!
She taught me how to deal with challenges...
And the myths of 'ifs'!
Once I was determined...
Not to bury myself
With each heartbreak.
Each emotional slam dunk.
Each stumble into and away from
A failed attempt I made...
Receiving rejection and disapproving looks!
My grandmama taught me,
With prayer there is fast action!
'As long as you keep your foot to the pedal,
You can do whatever you want!
With faith and prayer...
You will learn how to pass obstacles!
Honk your horn...
If anybody dares to get in you way.
And keep it clean and legal!
Just don't get hit by oncoming traffic! '
Of course I knew what grandma meant!
And I was glad she never had one accident,
OR a ticket!
And the 'ifs' have long passed.
That has been validated for me!
On several of grandma's trips!
And as I look out the window on some days...
Reviewing my journeys on grandma's drives,
I can still see the blurring country side
Whiz by
As grandma drove...
And I was frozen to the car door,
Listening to her sing in increased crescendo!
Knowing I was safe,
Whatever the decision I chose.
Whenever I chose to do it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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We Ate It and Took Her For Granted
The tone,
I don't like.
The message,
Understated.
The delivery,
Overrated.
But the suit worn is exquisite.
And he wears it if taylor made.
Of course he has a taste for fashion.
And on his eyes we love those shades.
'Besides his looks...
What else about his leadership,
Is important to you? '
Hmmm...
That is a real good question.
Let's see!
He has image.
He's athletic.
His wife is stunning.
And his children are gorgeous.
He speaks intelligently.
And has all of the credentials.
He's Black.
And today that's an asset.
You know...
Since all the white kids are into hip hop and rap.
Hmmm...
You've got me stumped!
I know he represents hard work and discipline.
And 'that' is his biggest drawback.
His 'flaw'!
Prior to his election,
No one thought about working to remain great!
We all thought that was understood.
Like the taste of grandma's apple pie.
Until she died.
No one alive knows how to recreate it.
We ate it and took her for granted.
'Who? Your grandmother? '
No!
The country.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My grandfather was Catholic; my grandmother, Jewish. Crossing over from Bavaria, as immigrants to the United States, the ship started to sink. My grandmother jumped overboard. My grandfather followed, to save this girl he had never met.
quote by Emanuel Celler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lines For An Album
Over the river and through the woods
To grandmother’s house we go ...
She waits behind the bolted door,
Her withered face in thirty pieces,
While blood runs thin, and memory,
An idiot without a name,
Recalls the snows of eighty years,
The daughter whose death was unexplained,
Darkness, blue veins, and broken leases.
Grandmother waits behind the door
(Sight dims beyond the curtain folds)
With her toothless smile and enuresis.
Over the river and through the woods
To grandmother’s house we go ...
poem by Weldon Kees
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Great Grandmother
great grandmother
grandmother's mother
she walked through my life
like red roses, that dropp over one's path
roses that hold us back to savour
the meaning cast between
two melancholic lines of a poem
great grandmother
grandmother's mother
she walked through my life
so sparingly, always with the
fervent wish to build a bridge to my life
you know it because she always walked
away with tears glistening in her eyes
tears glistening in her eyes
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Rita Matlock Gruenberg
Grandmother! You who sang to green valleys,
And passed to a sweet repose at ninety-six,
Here is your little Rita at last
Grown old, grown forty-nine;
Here stretched on your grave under the winter stars,
With the rustle of oak leaves over my head;
Piecing together strength for the act,
Last thoughts, memories, asking how I am here!
After wandering afar, over the world,
Life in cities, marriages, motehrhood--
(They all married, and I am homeless, alone.)
Grandmother! I have not lacked in strength,
Nor will, nor courage. No! I have honored you
With a life that used these gifts of your blood.
But I was caught in trap after trap in the years.
At last the cruelist trap of all.
Then I fought the bars, pried open the door,
Crawled through -- but it suddenly sprang shut,
And tore me to death as I used your courage
To free myself!
Grandmother! Fold me to your breast again.
Make me earth with you for the blossoms of spring--
Grandmother!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Grandma Dynamite
When I was a little boy growing up
In the South, South Bronx is where I played
And there were bullets flying everyday
And if I didn't duck, I might've got caught
Well, my grandmother said
Daddy's at work
Mommy's there too
And if you don't get your butt over to music class
You'll be through
he said
I bought you that guitar
Boy you better play it
Get you out the ghetto
Learn rhythm and solos
Be the best that you can
Rock the house in 4/4
Claim your name to fame and
Get off the street right now!
My grandma is dynamite
Tought me everything
I need to know - about life
D-Y-N-O GRANDMA
song performed by by 24-7 Spyz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grandmother
Grandmother, oh Grandmother
Looking from above.
I need your wisdom and your balance.
Most of all I need your love.
I hear you and I see you,
When I open my mind's eye.
I feel you wrapped around me,
In the space where I am "I".
Your kindness and your knowledge,
I need within me now,
For I'm in a constant turmoil.
Where to turn; which way and how?
Please help me to rebalance.
On my life's path forward go,
For when my mind is muddled
The answers you always know.
I know you never leave me,
In my aura sitting calm.
I thank you wisest Grandmother,
For keeping me safe from harm.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Motto Of This Baring Of One's Soul
I 'used' to invite those,
Who disliked me...
Into my home.
With the showing to them,
Unquestionable and utmost hospitality.
I learned this from my grandmother.
With a giving to them an atmosphere,
To tell me face to face...
Whatever it was they had to say,
They could share it then...
And I would give them my full attention.
My grandmother would hum gospel songs,
Whenever she wanted to calm herself.
But instead of doing that,
The atmosphere I set for them...
In my home,
My detractors believed they could attack.
These times are not for the humming,
Of hymnals in any key.
And needless to say,
When they left to go away...
It was more not less,
Backstabbing they enacted.
The Motto Of This Baring Of One's Soul?
Always be respectful to others.
In all ways!
No matter who believes this is a weakness
And when a peace kept within is attacked,
Without warranted provocation...
A display of momentary insanity is acceptable.
And I remember my grandmother once disciplined,
All of her younger children...
As she lined us up,
With a whipping and humming done of a spiritual.
THEN...
Bake a treat for us to eat!
~One day you 'kids' are going to understand.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Gas
my grandmother had a serious gas
problem.
we only saw her on Sunday.
she'd sit down to dinner
and she'd have gas.
she was very heavy,
80 years old.
wore this large glass brooch,
that's what you noticed most
in addition to the gas.
she'd let it go just as food was being served.
she'd let it go in bursts
spaced about a minute apart.
she'd let it go
4 or 5 times
as we reached for the potatoes
poured the gravy
cut into the meat.
nobody ever said anything,
especially me.
I was 6 years old.
only my grandmother spoke.
after 4 or 5 blasts
she would say in an offhand way,
'I'll bury you all!'
I didn't much like that:
first farting
then saying that.
it happened every Sunday.
she was my father's mother.
every Sunday it was death and gas
and mashed potatoes and gravy
and that big glass brooch.
those Sunday dinners would
always end with apple pie and
ice cream
and a big argument
about something or other,
my grandmother finally running out the door
and taking the red train back to
Pasadena
the place stinking for an hour
and my father walking about
fanning a newspaper in the air and
saying, 'it's all that damned sauerkraut
she eats!'
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The last visit and conversion…
Here lays my grandmother
A week from: Death.
The gentle archetypal, type of grandmother
Who nursed my cries; made all things better.
Here lays, my grandmother…
In that; week before their heinous lies….
“Spoken in hellos but not goodbyes”
In that week before her untimely: Death.
Before; her cloak of life fell silently away bereft.
In isolating surrendered breaths…
In hopes and prayers…
In hopes; never-ending…
In words that were formed:
Like crusts of bread.
Floated in the mouths of the living…
Where once it was lovingly said.
That our own increments will rise conversely…
And speak from; our own deathbeds.
Shall we not all of us…
Then one day, converse, with the dead.
Here lays, my grandmother…
And to date—she is dead.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Ballade Of The Hardy Annual
Many a jest that refuses to die
Bobs up again as the seasons appear;
Deathless it hits us again in the eye-
Changeless and dull as the calendar year.
Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere,
Stronger, withal, than the sturdiest oak;
Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear-
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly,
All through the day of the 'leathery sphere,'
Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy
All on the theme of the grandmother dear.
Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer
Please us and tickle us quite to the choke.
But-on this matter our attitude's clear-
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
Giggle we can at a blueberry pie;
Scream at a comedy king or ameer;
Simply guffaw when the jestermen guy
Marriage, a thing at which no one should jeer.
Things that in others elicit a tear
All of our risibles simply unyoke;
But from this stand we're unwilling to veer:
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
L'ENVOI
Brothers in motley, the season is here;
Small is the boon that we sadly invoke:
Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear! -
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Grandma's Treasure Box
Each of us
when we reached 14
would make the Visit to
Grandmothers house
to see what was inside
her Treasure Box;
the Family Treasure Box
where each year
one of us
got to see
what she had
hidden there..
My Dad had been;
my older brother
had been
and now it was my turn
to see that part of
Family History.
No one who'd seen
could talk of it.
No one could reveal to anyone
what was in Grandma's secret box.
No one did.
No one would risk
Grandmother's upset.
She lived beneath
the 'L' in Chicago
refusing to move
and they built
the tracks
right over her house;
each time one passed
it rocked her house
like rolling thunder;
Varoom, clacky clack
another one
going by.
Stubborn was not the word
for Grandmother.
She still wrote letters
30 years later
to every Mayor
complaining about the
tracks and the trains
saying she wanted them torn down.
Every month a letter.
Grandmother never
gave up;
never forgot;
fierce in her loves
fierce about her neighborhood
fierce about things which displeasured her
fierce about family
fierce about everything.
I sat with her,
apron on:
she served me pie.
'Sonny' she said
now you at the age
where you need to
learn grown-up things.
Like your Dad and brother
your turn now come
to see what drives
this family;
our family heirloom so to speak.
You'll see now.
As you grow up
you hear people talking about it
but we are the only family that
has it in our treasure box.
Lot's want it
but we the only one's
that has it.
She walked me up her tiny
narrow stair case to the attic
my head spinning,
wondering what it could be.
What did we have in our family
that the whole world wanted?
The treasure box was small;
a faded gold color
with a hand-carved lid
covered by Grandma's
liver-spotted hand
which shook in the dim
light.
She shifted the box,
opening it with a tiny key
smiling faintly
her eyes moistening
as a sliver of sunlight
reflected into the opening box
and I could just begin to
see what was inside.
'There it is'
she said
'What is it? ' I said,
staring at a piece of cloth;
satin sheen
with a lace border.
'Every since your great
grandmother got
it has been the luck of this family
and so people's all over the
world hear about but
we the only one's who got it.
'What is it?
Your great great grandmother's;
cut from her mother's wedding dress
and from that day
this families' luck changed.
I looked at her eyes
looking for an answer there.
'Grandma what is it?
You heard of the Silver Lining'
Yes, I said.
Well this family has the only one.
It is the Silver Lining from your great, great,
grandmothers wedding dress.
Grandma had it
and she believed it had saved our family
all these years.
'I took it out when
your mother had her cancer
and she got better
and it took away her pain.
I took it out when your younger brother
had his accident, and he lived.
I took it out when your grandfather went to war
and he came home safe.
I take it out when ever this family needs things.
It is our Silver Lining.
Now you must never speak
or tell what is in the treasure box
or it will break the spell.
I never did to this day
Today I have the Treasure Box
waiting for my child
to have a chance to see.
Grandma's gone
leaving behind her Silver Lining
for the rest of us.
And on some days
I do take it out
when things look
like they might go bad.
Just for luck.
Everyone
is always
looking for a Silver Lining
and some luck.
All the Grandmothers
gave us ours.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Queen Mother, with a lifetime's popularity, seemed incapable of a bad performance as national grandmother-warm, smiling, human, understanding, she embodied everything the public could want of its grandmother.
quote by John Pearson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Saints
In our family, there were two saints,
my aunt and my grandmother.
But their lives were different.
My grandmother's was tranquil, even at the end.
She was like a person walking in calm water;
for some reason
the sea couldn't bring itself to hurt her.
When my aunt took the same path,
the waves broke over her, they attacked her,
which is how the Fates respond
to a true spiritual nature.
My grandmother was cautious, conservative:
that's why she escaped suffering.
My aunt's escaped nothing;
each time the sea retreats, someone she loves is taken away.
Still she won't experience
the sea as evil. To her, it is what it is:
where it touches land, it must turn to violence.
poem by Louise Gluck
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