Lolita

Nanny is the only grandparent I have left. Hard to believe. She's almost 84 and her age has really caught up with her. She lives by herself now, and I rarely get a chance to visit with her anymore as my world is far away in Houston with a husband and two little girls.

The guilt of not spending time with her caught up with me during my Hurricane Ike evacuation. I found a reason to visit her: an old vintage suitcase.

Mom told me she thought Nanny had one. I was looking for one as a prop for some photo shoots, something old with character to sort "liven up" the scene. I called Nanny to see if she did, in fact, have one, and she said yes. So I headed to her house.

When I arrived, I saw the suitcase sitting in the garage by the back door. It was cleaned and ready to go. I knocked on her door and she slowly shuffled to it and let me in. The meeting was a bit awkward at first. I had no reason for being so distant to her lately. Growing up, I spent a lot of time with her in her Merle Norman Cosmetics studio. We watched soap operas and ate lunch in the back room. She had a tiny black and white TV and a recliner that she sat in. After lunch, I would watch her put makeup on customers. There were these little sample bubbles of foundation that she had in every skin color, bubbles of sample lipstick, sample blush. I loved being at her studio among all the makeup, flattering lights, mirrors, and smell of talcum powder.

Now, here I sat a grown woman in her house with a nervous smile on my face, wondering how to start the conversation. I didn't have to worry because she did.

"I cleaned up the suitcase and took out all the old clothes of your daddy's and aunt Jan's. Here they are," she pointed to a sack on the floor next to her and pulled it to her to take out a piece. "Look at this little jumpsuit of your daddy's. Isn't it cute? I remember we bought it at the Jobe and Lum store here in Harwood."

She laid the pants on her lap and smoothed out the wrinkles, deep in thought. I could picture my dark-headed father running around outside in the blue and white striped jumper.

She took out an ivory dress. "This was also your daddy's. You know, boys wore dresses back then. When your Papoo and I were babies, pink was the color for boys and blue was for girls. Can you believe that? It's true!"

I marveled at the idea of boys in pink dresses and girls in blue as acceptable attire back then.

"I know it's silly of me to hold onto these clothes. . . only a mother would understand why. I'm not sure if your daddy or aunt Jan will even appreciate them when I'm gone, but now they're all I have. When you get old, your memories are all you've got, you know."

I did understand why she kept dad and Jan's clothes all these years. Perfectly. My mind went home to the pile of Arden's clothes I kept in a tub under my bed. Many of her clothes I'd given away, but there were certain ones I couldn't part with. It wasn't the clothes, but the memory of her when she was in them that I could not give away.

"Your brother Ray interviewed me once for his history class, and he asked me what was the best time of my life. I said when I was mother. That was truly the best time of my life."

I needed to hear that. So many times I'm frustrated with Arden or Tess, wishing I could be by myself instead of with them. Nanny's words swirled around in my head on the short drive home like a never-ending smoke cloud. I cried. I needed to go to her. I needed to hear what she had to say.

The next day I drove to Palacios to help take ring orders for David. Strange how events fall into place. It just so happened that I would pass through the small town of Lolita where Nanny and Papoo had their first teaching gigs. She talks a lot about my grandfather these days. Again, memories are all she has. The day I visited, she talked a lot about Lolita since she knew I was driving that way the next day.

On the way home from taking orders in Palacios, the sun was setting just right for photos. I took a detour from my normal route to Gonzales and stopped in Lolita. There was the little schoolhouse where they taught. Click. The water tower with Lolita printed in big black letters. Click, click. The mosquitos were fierce. Thanks, Ike. I didn't care. I wanted to make these photos for her. For her memory. Thank you, Nanny, for sharing your memories with me.