My Grandma and the Reason I Haven’t Posted in Awhile

In short, I visited my grandma and she doesn’t have Internet. At length,

Saint Augustine is a small town an hour south of Jacksonville, Florida. It is full of shops with misspelled names--Grampa’s Music, Olde Tyme Candy Shoppe, etc.-- and old white people who still whisper the word homosexual, wonder whether one is supposed to use African-American or Black, and who like to tell stories about their grandkids who work for the World Wide Web. It is also where my grandma lives. And it is also the name of a saint. Saint Augustine, the place, is endearing, despite the impression I may have given you. It is also the reason I haven’t posted in awhile. Like I said, my grandma doesn’t have Internet.

Although she lacks in Internet, G-Shirley, as we call my grandmother affectionately -- also to bring her name into the twenty-first century -- does not lack in much else. Her wardrobe consists of layered galabayahs (from her years of living in the Middle East) and shiny “fancy” things from second-hand stores and yard sales, all of which she embroiders, appliqués, prints on, and ultimately drapes so that at 5’ 10” she stands a towering piece of folk art. Even in her bathing suit, onto which she has sewn beads and embroidered in gold thread around the neck, she manages this look. She has jewelry she can “go to the pool in.” She has a selection of waterproof watches and swim caps to match. And her house is a living museum. Living because there are in fact bugs living in multiple unexpected places, because St. Augustine is in the American tropics because, and also because she is constantly updating, or perhaps adding-on is a better phrase, more and more flair. A museum because everything she has comes in a collection and there is a lot of art.

G-Shirley does not lack in friends either. Generally she introduced me to them saying, “This is my granddaughter, the one I told you about, the supermodel. Tell them how much you weigh and how tall you are.” After this pronouncement I try to simultaneously shake hands with the person and pretend that I don’t know the lady introducing us. This is nearly impossible so I usually look down or away after shaking hands and pull my little sister in front of me. “Cute as a button,” they’ll inevitably say when they see her, and I will be saved.

Among the many people we were introduced to and places we swam while we were not on the Internet, Gladys the shell lady and the water aerobics class stood out from the rest.

Gladys is shorter than my sister who is shorter than me, so in short, she is short. She is older than both of our ages combined times two plus twenty. She lives in a clean wall-to-wall carpeted house with adjoining garage and green lawn and paved driveway a couple blocks from the ocean. Despite all this, her house smells like glue. It is not an unpleasant smell. Everything in her house has small shells meticulously glued to it, so in fact it is not a surprising smell either. Mostly it is an odd smell, one you don’t expect to linger, but does, hanging around casually staring at you, while you try to ignore its presence.

Gladys fired statements posed as questions loudly at my sister and me, “I HEAR YOU LIKE TO SWIM. IS THAT TRUE?”

Yes,” we both said.

“DID YOU SAY SOMETHING?”

“YES,” we both said.

“SO YOU LIKE TO SWIM?”

“YES.”

“THAT’S GOOD, ISN’T IT?”

“YES. GOOD.” And like that we were distracted from awkward glue and preoccupied with the awkward conversation.

“DON’T YOU JUST LOVE SHELLS?”

“YES, THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL.”

“I LOVE MAKING THINGS WITH SHELLS. I WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING; IT’S A SHELL BALL. DO YOU LIKE IT?

“YES. IT MUST HAVE TAKEN YOU A LONG TIME TO GLUE THOSE SHELLS ON!”

“WHAT?”

“A LONG TIME TO GLUE THE SHELLS ON!”

“YES I LIKE GLUING THE SHELLS AROUND.”

Eventually we negotiated our way out and got back on our bikes to head to town. It was only after we got there I realized that the exhilarating hilariously swooping laughing hysterical bike ride to town might have been caused by Gladys’ Glue that we had forgotten about. An odd moment of vulnerability fell over us as we imagined being kidnapped by Gladys and covered in glue and shells. We would be set out on the glass coffee table to dry. “DON’T THEY LOOK PRETTY LIKE THAT,” we heard her yelling at her next victims.

Water Aerobics was an entirely different experience. Rather than feeling kidnapped, my sister and I consented to our grandmother’s request that we join her at the health club for the 9am class. We thought it would be amusing. And it was for the first fifteen minutes while older ladies, keeping their powdered faces and permed hair out of the water, bobbed up and down to Rhianna’s Umbrella –ella –ella –ella. My grandmother wearing her Girls Gone Wild baseball cap and embroidered swimsuit took the prize.

“Do you know what Girls Gone Wild is?” asked my little sister.

“Yes my swim coach told me it is a show where girls reveal their bosoms. It is funny.” The group is very amused with the idea of Girls Gone Wild and everyone laughed.

At the end of the class my competitive grandmother asked us to race. My grandmother is twice our ages combined plus sixteen, or eighty-two. “Forty lengths,” she challenged. “I won’t beat you on speed but I will on endurance,” G-Shirley boasted. My little sister who was never on a swim team looked worried.

“How about twenty lengths?” she asked.

“No it must be forty! C’mon, don’t be a baby.”

Take a pause and imagine my grandmother in her Girls Gone Wild hat taunting my little sister. Obviously, my sister couldn’t resist.

We began to swim. Out of the three of us, I was the only one who could flip turn so I lapped my sister and grandma almost immediately. Understand that this is not boastful; rather I hope to make you appreciate the situation I was in. Forced to race my sister and a competitive old lady. Of course you understand that I couldn’t let my sister win, that’s just the way it is with younger sisters. You start letting them win and soon enough they think they’re better than you and you can’t make them get you breakfast. Competitive grandmothers are a special breed, if you have one you’ll know that there’s no real decision. You have to beat them. The glory of beating anyone will lead to hours of bragging, photographs taken at the scene, emails and phone calls to relatives, visits to neighbors, driving to the Dollar Store because they carry ribbons, awarding the ribbons (first and honorable mention) to all participants, and no, I’m not being facetious. In the end I beat them both and feel guilty for doing it. When my grandma finishes she says, “If you were 82 you wouldn’t have beaten me so it’s kind of like you cheated.” My sister concurs.

This more or less concludes my lengthy explanation. In short I could have said I wasn’t posting because I was high off glue and busy beating old women and children in swim races, but then that doesn’t really explain it.