All

Tomorrow I will buy a pack of cigarettes and likely a lighter. I haven’t bought cigarettes for myself in likely 42 years. I don’t smoke, never developed that skill. Today I wish I could buy them without looking like a guilty teenager. I was too tight with my money, even as a teenager, so other than the one time taste I haven’t smoked my whole life. Tomorrow I will buy a pack of Virginia Slims, my grandmother’s brand to place in my office in remembrance of her. She died today. My birthday and her day of passing. I remember so little of the details of my life let alone hers but aromas and objects I can touch have always seemed to bring me faint memories. The smell of coffee, fresh baked cookies, and the unique aroma of tobacco can flood my mind with partial memories, vague pictures, a smoky haze.

Stolen biscuits from the back of the stove left over from an early breakfast, with sausage if I was lucky. Cousins covering the floor of grandma’s living room. Embarrassing grandma when I removed my dust covered fingers from the top of her doorway and wiped my hands on my shirt. This short lady had forgotten to get a step stool and dust the top of the doors. I had the habit of standing in the doorway with my hands gripping the top of the door. I remember both her and I embarrassed. Holiday meals, grandma’s chocolate pie, evening coffee around the small dining room table, crossword puzzles, and the sound of dominos being shuffled. These are the memories I see through the smokey haze of years. None real clear.

I remember sitting beside her in duplicate recliners talking of family, news, or laughing at the thinness of our local newspaper. I remember sitting next to her at the table, eating. I remember her sitting somewhere always listening and always telling stories of family. I remember time spent but no real specifics. In my defense we lived close to each other for only a small portion of her 99 years. Wish I had paid attention, wish I had listened better.

Among my favorite memories of sitting with her was during a family get together. Grandma, several cousins, and I were sitting in the backyard surrounding an umbrella covered table. All of those cousins smoked, and had lit cigarettes, smoke filing the area and the air beneath the umbrella. Grandma reached into her purse and pulled out her pack of Virginia Slims. She slid one out of the pack placed it between her lips ready to join her grandsons in a smoke. Three cousins instinctively reached for lighters, I sit on her left and being a non smoker had no lighter to offer. Rodney on her right politely lit her cigarette. Today I understand why a gentleman carries a lighter. Grandma took a drag or two then puffed out some smoke adding to the cloud. She then solemnly declared “ain’t this a sight, grandma smoking with the grandkids.” She smirked, we laughed. I wish I had a picture of that moment. Sitting telling stories, laughing with just the grandkids.

And I remember the word ALL, yes capitalized, I can see that clearly… Seven marks on a scrap piece of paper sometimes repeated over and over, made as we sat around the dining room table in her kitchen. It’s how we kept score in our games of 42, played with those dominos. We shared countless games of 42. As a youngster I watched, as teenager I played with her as a teammate at times. As an adult DeAnn learned and grandma was an opponent. The seven points making up the word ALL being the final score of the winning team. The thought comes to me this morning that All is a funny word. It can be used to keep score in a game. It can be singular, focused as in “all I want” or refer to plurality, everything, “I want it all”. All, just this or everything. Complete is likely the best meaning, particularly today.

Una Lee, Tommy, mom, grandma, grandma Nelson. Some will say Grandma was just an old woman, some will say that’s all she was… She was a daughter, sister, friend, wife, helpmate, provider, mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and great great grandmother, cook, housekeeper, knitter, domino player, puzzle solver, coffee drinker, and a smoker. She was just that and she was all that. If I was keeping score of or describing her 99 years all is a good word. Complete.

Today all I want is one more stolen biscuit, one more cup of coffee, one more slice of chocolate pie, one more game of 42, and one more opportunity to light a cigarette.

David