The Macaroni Heart of Jesus
How to be the best possible grandparent to a traumatized child.
“I see you’ve got your gloves on, let me buckle your shoes. Did you put the quarter inside your glove like I told you?”
“Yes,” I said, holding up my palm and pressing on the hard circle inside my white glove for my grandmother to see.
“Good girl. I’ll tell you when it’s time to put it in the plate. Just leave it there till then.”
“Okay.”
She pulls my foot up to her knee, and over my lace-edged socks attaches the black strap, which matches the ribbon around the waist of my yellow dress.
When both Mary-Janes are fastened, she starts to move away, then pauses to look at me appraisingly before bending down to reposition a small plastic barrette, which is straining to hold growing bangs out of my eyes.
I wait while she pulls a pale blue cardigan over her blouse and slips her feet into low black heels.
I wish she would wear the glittering silver pumps she allowed me to wear with my nightgown last night when we were sitting in the dark, listening to the crickets and wondering what all the chirping was about.
“They’re probably protesting that their rent is too high.”
“They’re practicing to go on tour with the Beatles.”
“They’re all in love with each other and can’t stop singing.”
“Maybe it’s a fancy cricket wedding, and they’re all wearing silver shoes.”
We made up reasons until the elegant pumps grew too tiring to keep on my feet, then we put them away and went to bed.
Now, it’s a Sunday morning in the early fall of 1970, the crickets are quiet, and the southern California sidewalks are warm and dry, but even so, I know the silver heels are not for today.
Today we are walking to church.
My grandmother is not religious, in fact, she seems to admire rebels more than in saints. Still, she believes children should to go to church from time to time, just to get the main idea.
She picks up her bag, and I firmly grip the child-sized straw clutch accessory we picked out yesterday at Thriftys’ Discount Store.
My quarter is still safe in my glove, in case I lose my training-purse, but two tissues and a roll of Lifesavers are my treasures if I can get all the way to lunch without letting go.
We take the stairs from her apartment down to the street.
Eventually, we’ll arrive at the church, and I’ll learn a song about Jesus loving the little children, then follow the Sunday School teacher’s instructions to create a picture of Jesus’ heart with glue and pasta.
Other than that, I will remember nothing about church and everything about walking with my grandmother.
I’m safe and free to observe what’s around us as we move through the neighbourhood, holding the hand of the one person in my world who can make things go, taste, be and feel just right for me.
With her, I’m as far as I can be from the abuse she’s unaware I endure each day.
It’s the weekend now, she is with me, and the bad things happen in far away world.
We stroll unhurried, past quiet apartment buildings sparkling with broken bits of colored glass embedded in their walls, past neatly trimmed hedges, curled iron gates, and flowers of every color adorning the sunlight. We stop to ‘gab’ momentarily with anyone who happens to be out watering.
Flowers are like crack for my grandmother. She cannot encounter a single planter without commenting on its’ beauty, health or discuss a prescription for what it might need to do better.
Flowers and animals.
“Hello! Well, aren’t you a sweetie?” She bends to greet a four-legged leash wearer whom we are casually informed is named Arnie.
“Oh, that’s my cousin’s name,” she laughs. “I guess you do look like an Arnie don’t you?”
Like all small creatures in her vicinity, Arnie seems to recognize that he’s understood, and answers in his native Toung-Tail, conveying a series of enthusiastic yeses.
I don’t remember putting my quarter in the offering plate but I do recall giving my Grandmother the macaroni heart of Jesus.
‘Did you make this for me?” she asks as if she’s amazed at the exceptional artistry.
“ Yes, I made it for you, because Jesus loves the little children.”
“That’s right,” she laughs and puts her arm around my shoulder, pulling me into the curve of her waist, “He does.”
I still have my purse when we arrive for lunch at the Copper Penny Restaurant, where the tables are covered with one-cent Amerian coins suspended in a layer of clear epoxy.
We discuss how rich we would be if I could fit all the coins all into my new purse.
“We could buy a fast car and drive all around the world.”
“We could buy more purses and come back at dinner to get the pennies from ALL the tables.”
“We could keep them in the Empire State Building .”
“We could dress-up, meet the Queen of England, and go to the beach every day.”
We’re still laughing when my spaghetti and her shrimp cocktail arrives.
“You two seem to be having a good time,” the waitress says as she eventually brings the check, along with two red and white spiraled peppermints.
“Of course we are,” my grandmother replies like it’s the most obvious thing anyone could notice. “This is my granddaughter,” she gestures as if she is presenting her Magnum Opus.
Then there is nothing left to do but glow with happiness.
Silver shoes, cricket songs, a penny covered table, Lifesavers in a Sunday purse, a universe of flowers, a dog named Arnie and the macaroni heart of Jesus, all stirred together in deep and unconditional friendship.
My grandmother created a lush and restful archipelago of memories across the dangerous sea of my childhood.
Because of this, it was my grandmother I told when I could no longer bear the burden of my abuse alone, and it was my grandmother who helped make certain I was heard, trusted and protected from harm.
Can you see this from wherever you are now Grandma?
I made it for you.
And I still know that Jesus loves the little children.
Happy International Women’s Day to grandmother’s and granddaughters everywhere.
