1200

It is the 1950's and all that is missing is the white picket fence. The house is a white bungalow in Parma, Ohio, and rather spacious in comparison to its outward appearance. It is always decorated for every holiday and nothing else ever changes. It is the way she likes it, Stationary and familiar. Every aspect is stuck in the 1950's with the insinuation of "Leave it to Beaver" perfection. This is how everything in the world should be and this is how everything should stay forever. It is what she strives for. It is what she acknowledges as reality and we let her live in this made up world because it has been over 50 years past and still she refuses to leave the 1950’s behind. She is my grandmother, the mother of my father, Dee Mouhlas.

Lace covers the top of every table, counter and mantel as well as hangs from the curtain rod above every window. When a rug gets worn out and tattered, she buys its exact replica. She recently got a new couch and it is a clone of the old one from the 50's. She had her neighbor search to the ends of the internet to find it because she dare not touch the evils of a computer. She has an oven that you have to light with a match and it does not quite work right. Despite her routine baking, she refuses to get a new one and just continuously checks on her creations because the oven has no timer and the temperature cannot be trusted. She was convinced to buy a microwave in the 1970's and when it died she refused to have it replaced. Her children, now all grown up with families of their own, bought her a new one. She ungraciously yelled at them upon receiving the gift. "Couldn't you just have gotten the old one fixed? I do not need this new piece of crap!" Her children refused to take the gift back and they allowed her to rant and rave about the microwave. She now uses the microwave all the time and no one has received a "Thank you for the gift", or an "I'm sorry." The old microwave is still in its same old place above her stove and the new microwave sits taking up valuable counter space. She does not apologize. She is always right.

She is my grandmother, and lucky enough to be wrinkle free, which she thinks, is because she drinks apple cider vinegar and honey as religiously as she says the rosary. She goes to church every Sunday, no exceptions in her 78 years of life. She thinks that it is sacrilege that the Roman Catholic priests do not say mass in Latin the way they used to in the 1950’s before the Vatican II Council when they allowed the mass to be held in English. She is a nurse but she does not wear scrubs. She wears the uniform of the nurses of the 1950’s including the little white angular hat that must be bobby pinned to the back of her head. She will not keep up with new information about medicine, and hence her job has been changed from being a traditional nurse to being one that takes down insurance information. She writes it down and gives it to another nurse to type in to a computer. She will not be fired because she has worked in this field for over 60 years and she will not quit because that would be too strange and new for her to tolerate. Her green eyes reflect the nature that she surrounds herself with and hair cut the short to her head the same way it has been since she was in her 20s, no nonsense. The only thing that has changed is that her almost black hair now contains numerous threads of grey. She would be 5'5" if she could stand up straight yet still as agile as a cat. She cleans, gardens, puts together photo books, and bakes incessantly and at speeds that would surprise everyone who looked at her slightly stocky hunched stature.

She takes a camera with her everywhere in order to record our family as a group at dinner tables. "Not again!" "Do we have to take more pictures of all of us eating," "I might have food in my teeth," "Can't the picture wait until we are done!" my family argues every time and yet "Your grandchildren need to see these pictures!" This is the only reason she gives as she chases down the closest waitress. She collects little figures of children playing with dogs, beautiful women in extravagant dresses, perched birds, mansions with lush gardens, sad clowns, and crystal animals and food items. She encases these in glass cabinets in every room of her house and she buys thousands of dollars worth of these figures to give out to relatives at birthdays and Christmas. All of her children have confronted her about this outrageous spending. They tell her, “You have to stop spending so much money on these collectibles. They just sit and collect dust. You have more important things to spend your money on.” She simply refuses to listen to anyone. She says “When someone looks at their collectibles they will think of me, and think of how nice I am for buying them presents and all of our memories we shared.” She is always right. She is my grandmother.

She was born in the 1930's in North Amherst, Ohio as the oldest daughter of two Polish immigrants. She was closer to her grandparents than she was to her own parents. From a young age she was taught to always stand by family, live by tradition, put all efforts toward work, and give God all attention. She does not speak much about her family and their relationships, she only bombards us with numerous old photographs of blank faces as she gives them names. She says that we have to tell our children and grandchildren all about these people however we know nothing about them our selves. We only know their name, whose child they were and who they became the father or mother of.

Everyone has to follow her way and do what she says. It doesn’t matter how old, but gender makes a difference. Boys can get away with a lot because boys will be boys but girls have to make good wives and learn how to cook and clean and take care of their husband and look beautiful for them when they come home from work. It was 2003 when my cousin Rachel was 11 years old and had a severe case of an anxiety disorder. My grandmother told my Aunt Sue who is Rachel’s loving mother “Rachel should come live with me for a year, I will teach her how to be a good wife in the future and teach her how to cook and clean for her husband and she will get rid of this foolish anxiety problem.” They did not accept the invite and my grandmother was not pleased at all. Rachel and her mother are not the only ones who have received this speech. Dee says what she wants and does what she wants regardless of what anyone thinks. If you dare think differently, there will be hell to pay. I have certainly been forced to give plenty of cash to the devil.

Every time she sees me, there is a problem. The biggest problem is my food allergies. Yes, I am allergic to dairy, eggs, gluten (a protein in all wheat products), and red meat. I cannot eat anything that she makes because I will get sick. I have learned the hard way. She does not know how to make food that I can eat. I do not blame her for that. Many people do not understand what I can or cannot eat. Most people are not accustomed to checking labels in everything. It is a whole new style for her and she does not like doing things in a new or different way. I have given her a few chances upon making my food because she takes it as her sole responsibility to feed every mouth that walks in her door. If someone walks in her front door her first questions is “Are you hungry?” If they answer no, she says “I will make something for you.” She believes that my food allergies are ridiculous and all in my head. She has admitted to purposely adding things that I am allergic to because she thought that I was pretending, and if I did not know that one of my allergens were present, then I would not get sick. I was soon puking in the bathroom after I had eaten her chicken that she swore was safe for me to eat. Yet she still does not believe me. She does not believe anyone could be allergic to food.

“You are just stupid. You can be allergic. In my day we didn’t have such foolish people making up such crap. You just hate me don’t you? You just hate me and won’t eat my food.” She says these words on a routine basis.

She says if I drank apple cider vinegar and honey just as she does, I would be fine. She is always right. Every Christmas, she gives people food as part of their present. I always get delicious milk chocolate which I am allergic too. I am eighteen now and I found out about my food allergies when I was ten. Here is another issue; I get interrogated because I cannot eat certain foods however she cannot eat potatoes, tomatoes, and peppers because they cause her arthritis to flare up. I have asked her about this many times. I do not receive an answer. Food allergies are all in one’s mind. She can be allergic to certain foods but no one else can. She is always right. She is my grandmother and she always knows best.

We are very different people. I am always wrong. I am always defacing my body with my piercings, tattoos, hair dye, and nail polish. I am ruining the gift that God gave me. I never hear the end of how disrespectful and ungrateful I am being and how I will never get married because no man will want a woman with holes in her ears. I do not listen. I am also foolish for being in college because I should be looking for a man to take care of instead of being in school. Every time I get a boyfriend, she gets so excited over the prospect of receiving great-grandchildren (much to my parent’s distaste). Every time we break up, she says, “Maybe you two would have gotten married and given me great-grand babies if you didn’t ruin your face with holes.” No one I have gone out with has ever officially met her. I do not expect her to approve of my piercings. I just want her to understand that my sole purpose in life is not to get married, pop out some kids, and be June Cleaver. I am eighteen. I am not ready to get married and have kids. I am enjoying my life.

Tradition is always right. Her children, Chris, Dan, and Cindy along with their spouse and children have always gone to her house for Christmas Eve, every year since before my eldest cousin Brian, who is 20 now, was born. We used to have more people in my extended family join us however in the past few years they have gone separate ways. Perhaps they got tired with doing the exact same thing ever Christmas and they thought it was time for a change. On Christmas Eve we always follow traditional folk and religious customs of Poland. “Traditionally, Poles, following Roman Catholic teachings, have fasted on December 24^th. The first meal of the day was a meatless supper.”(620) No one except for my grandmother follows that fast and we all eat before we get to her house for dinner. We would never tell her that. “Upon sitting down to their Christmas Eve supper, many Polish families observe the old tradition of sharing an oplatek between them. These small white wafers resemble Roman Catholic communion wafers. The father bids family member’s peace with one another and breaks the wafer. Everyone present eats a piece of the broken wafer.” (621) My grandfather used to do this when he was alive. Now it is the oldest male present. My grandfather went along with all of her Polish traditions even though he was 100% Greek. “In Poland the Christmas Eve supper has a special name. It is called Wigilia , which means ‘vigil’ in Polish….Traditional Christmas Eve foods include carp, pike, almond soup (made from almonds, raisins, rice, and milk), beet soup, cabbage, and other vegetable and grain dishes. Poppyseed cake, ginger cake and other pastries may be served for dessert, Polish folk tradition suggests setting a place for the Christ child as well as places for any absent family members. The unused place settings remind diners of the spiritual presence of these absent guests.” We also pray for more children and we all end up being coaxed into singing Christmas carols. This is exactly the set up of every Christmas Eve I have ever had and it all comes straight from the Encyclopedia of Christmas and New Year’s Celebrations. My grandmother lives by her traditions. She follows the book. When we are with her, we must do the same. We celebrate Wigilia. We have to eat meatless with the exception of fish. The menu for Christmas always consists of fried fish, mushroom soup, pierogies, cabbage, and peas loaded with butter. For desert, varieties of cookies are available, as well as nut and poppy seed rolls, and a cake baked in celebration of Jesus’ birthday. Dishes will be brought by various family members however if they dare have meat, they will meet with the garbage and some dishes will fail to make it to the buffet because she “forgot” about them. What is lucky enough to make it to the display will automatically receive her distaste even though she never tries them. As adamant as she is about this meatless tradition, she does not even follow it. She never really has followed it. In 2003 I was helping her prepare for Christmas Eve dinner as I usually do. This time I started helping before the mushroom soup was made. I was preparing vegetables and cutting up celery for the soup and I noticed cans of beef broth on her counter. This was not beef flavored vegetable broth but plain old Swanson’s beef broth made from the boiling down of cow bones and ligaments. A substance that would most definitely not be considered vegetarian. I was of course curious as to why there where cans of beef broth on her counter. I decided to put those cans in the cabinet to get them out of the way. There would be no reason to use the beef broth tonight.

“Where did those cans go?” she asked

“I put them in the cabinet.” I answered

“Get those out back out. I need them for the soup.”

“Wait. What? What happened to the tradition of not eating meat on Christmas Eve? What happened to the celebration of Wigilia?”

“It is what my mother used and it is what I have always used and it is what I will always use.”

“You were so adamant and set about these traditions and we always have to follow them. You were yelling at me for eating chicken and rice soup last year.”

“This is what I use.” She said.

That is all she said. She ignored every word I said. That is what she uses and that is all she will use as the broth of the soup. She got the broth out of the cabinet and poured it into the pot. I do not know if she considered it to be meatless or not. I asked her and she did not answer. I think that she used it because it was her mother used and since she had passed before my time, I do not have the liberty of asking her why she used the beef broth. My great-grandmother was also 100% Polish and very traditional. So why was this used against the Wigilia tradition that they stand by so firmly. I told some of my family members about what had ensued while preparing the dinner. They asked her the same questions that I asked her and they received the same answers that I received. I feel that we will never know the answer to that question. It has never been a big deal to anyone because no one in my family other than my grandmother is strict about the Wigilia tradition and no one is a vegetarian so it did not really matter. It is just very curious. It is odd and it is something that bothers me. It desperately bothers me. Mostly because I cannot have an answer and that she ignores the questions entirely. She does not answer questions if she does not want to. I think she does not actually hear anything that she does not want to hear.

Christmas Eve is always an adventure. Everyone who joins us must have a serving of pirogues, fish, soup and peas if they don’t want to meet with her rage. “No thank you helping!” she always says. Whether they are six or sixty, she will stands over them with the dish of whatever they neglected to take and wait until they have finished the serving size of her choice. No one wants to disappoint her since she is so kind for inviting them to her house and no one wants to get into a fight over food. Christmas Eve is not the only time of year when someone gets interrogated for their food choices and how they choose to eat. It happens at every dinner, and she does not stop with her relatives. In her presence, one must finish their plate. No exceptions. There is no wasting food. All food groups must also be present on the plate and one of those items must be something she made. If someone has failed to meet those qualifications they will have to face her wrath, the wooden spoon.

I cannot please her. I have given up on that. I just wish I could talk to her. I mean a real conversation with her actually listening to what I have to say. I used to live with her for a year. I have been to her house at least one night a week from the time I was born until now since I am in college. I do not think that we have ever shared an actual one on one, in depth conversation where she is actually listening to what I have to say. She never sought interest in me but only in what she can make me become. Even though she seems unbearable at times, I desire to be around her and get to know her simply because she is my grandmother and I do not know how much longer she will be here. I think I have a lot to learn from her and I know there is a great deal that I could teach her too but she is not interested. I have asked. We are around each other quite frequently and she is my blood related grandmother and still it seems as if we are no more than acquaintances. It is not all on her. I usually get aggravated early on when talking to her because she will start one of her long lectures about how I am ungrateful and I stop talking. When I stop talking, I stop listening. I tune her out because I think she is doing the same to me. I will not talk because I do not want to argue with her because she is my grandmother, I will not give in because I am too stubborn, I will not try to answer her in a polite manner because I will get yelled at for interrupting or she will raise her volume so it exceeds mine. So I shut up. I stop listening. I now avoid her. I try to limit our contact because as soon as one of us starts talking, it turns into bickering. I do not want that argument to grow so I turn silent. I want to talk to her. I want to tell her everything. How grateful I am for her, and how much she has hurt me. I want to converse. I want to listen to her. I want her to listen to me. I want to settle everything, but I do not know how. She is my grandmother.