Wordplay with the Other Side
Or that time Granny came to Arthur Findlay
My grandmother, Granny, was a complicated human being. Loved by some, and feared by many, she did everything with wild abandon. She played tennis fiercely, yelling ah-ha! when her ball burned into the corner, moving fast as her gorgeous white hair flowed in the sunlight. She was often seen testing her long-legged athletic sons with those shots, holding her own well into her 70ʻs.
(Granny celebrating her birthday along with our wedding; 9/29/2001- also pictured my great uncle robby)
Competition ruled the family and she started it, dammit. Her best dish was quiche, which is kinda french and kinda awesome but even though all of the ingredients were just right, for reasons unknown, to me the result was usually meh. Soggy might be the word? But we ate it, oh, we ate it. Once she decided that for dessert we should all make sculptures out of tubs of sorbet, but not individually, as a group project. It was 100% gross, passing the vessels we each were eating out of, spoons flying, germs be damned. But she liked all the colors and the creativity and the community; laughing and delighting in the sculptures we made, totally missing the looks of disgust and bemusement the cousins, uncles, and spouses were shooting each other.
Dark and light, playful but mean, she was as smart as the day is long. Only a few of us could bear her presence for too many minutes. On my 17th birthday, she flew into a fit of rage over something I said, I can't remember what, but the angel food cake she had baked disappeared with her when she stomped out of our home, effectively abandoning my birthday celebration. Minus one lonely piece of cake, that stayed behind. I wondered if it was for me.
She loved all wordplay, sudoku, scrabble, and any brain tangler was something she could whip and manage, control, and answer with absolute ease. Her writing was hilarious, choosing words that donʻt make any sense but instead were perfect, bringing a burst of delight. I flatter myself if I think my writing has anything in common with hers. Perhaps my DNA ignored the way I kept my body 1000ʻs of miles from her and I was still offered a small bit of that genetic goodness.
She died in late 2021 in her 96th year, She planned to live well beyond 100 and told us she would die at the hands of a jealous wife. It was a funny, sassy thing to say and she said it for as long as I knew her. I am sad for her that that torrid love affair didnʻt happen in her late 90ʻs. Or 80ʻs, or well, any recent decade for that matter.
Recently I was at the Alfred Findlay College* and there were three tutors doing a demonstration of mediumship on a ‘platform’; which is mediumship speak for a stage.
Their British accents charmed me from the minute they opened their mouths, all of them looking elegant and exactly right all the way to stocking feet and a really lovely shade of lipstick to offset a proper dress. With 100 or so people in the room, my expectations were low that any of my ancestors would arrive on that stage with the help of those mediums. It certainly never happened before in a gallery reading despite many opportunities.
Maureen M swept out to begin her reading and said without pause, “You would understand that we play Scrabble every day.”
The chicken skin (chills) kicked in right away, Oh! She had Granny. My complicated and wildly talented Granny.
I raised my hand, I was alone in my claim, I guess no one else had an everyday scrabble Granny. For more edification, if you have never witnessed a gallery reading, everyone who can understand what is being said raises their hand, often there are multiple people who recognize the first few statements. Next, she said, “You would understand that sheʻs a bit, how shall I say, terse at times. Perhaps sharp with her tongue”.
I nodded vigorously then I remembered that nodding wouldnʻt serve her process so I yelled “Yes!” so the medium could hear me from the stage and feel my encouragement.
“You would understand that she loved you the best she could”. My heart softened toward her hard exterior coming through this lovely British woman's sweet face.
“Yes, I can understand that.”
“And she wants to thank you for playing Scrabble with her, that meant so much. Can you understand that?”
I never played Scrabble with her, I just didn’t. I think I was intimidated by her brain and afraid of word competition on the game board along with whatever cutting comment was probably coming for me. But I understood it perfectly because it felt like a vaguely passive-aggressive way of saying that she would have very much liked it if I had done that. That she wished I had. So it was a big communication in those few words.
My eyes tearing a bit, wishing things had been different, I said:
“Yes, I can understand that.”
*Arther Findlay College is in Stansted, England, and hosts people from all around the world who study mediumship, channeling, and other psychic arts.