Gray-Haired Lady
Charlotte Pratt Hawkes Wray
6 August 1901-13 October 1990
Gray-haired ladies are not nearly so prevalent in the temple as they once were. Sparkling eyes and skin that reveals the beauty of a long life today are more often framed by hair that denies rather than celebrates the passage of time. But now as I sit waiting in the temple—straining to focus my ever-flitting brain into a pointed pondering—I look up and see a woman who remarkably resembles my dear Grandma Charlotte. She passed away in 1990, and although I often think of her, I do not often think of her. What I mean is, I find myself mentioning my memories of Grandma or things she did, but it has been years since I really pictured her in my mind. Tears sting my eyes as I soak in this woman’s profile, so like Grandma’s: salt and pepper hair in a typical curly Grandma ‘do; the same slope of forehead; kind, deep-set eyes; a narrow-bridged nose with a cute little ski-jump-bump at the end; thinning lips turned upward in a gracious smile.
The resemblance ends at the shoulders, other than a similar thinness of frame: this woman is probably taller than me, though I’m not sure because I’m sitting and she stands, but Grandma was very petite. Her five feet, four inches had contracted significantly by the time I knew her. Charlotte was born in 1901, so she was seventy-two when we met and over eighty when I could stand and look her in the eyes. The years had curved her back, and she used her excellent sewing skills to remake any clothes she bought so that they would fit her declining body. She also used those skills to handcraft beautiful aprons for her grandchildren’s first time through the temple. I have often thought how I would have loved to have one of those myself, but I was only seventeen when she passed; one of my older sisters received the last one she made. The only tangible thing I have to remind me of Grandma is one of her white lacey handkerchiefs, which I carry in my pocket in the temple. She always had one with her, usually folded into her sleeve. Warmth spreads through me as I fight the tears but give in to fond remembrance, soaking in this other woman’s sweet face. Suddenly, I am a child again, excited at the prospect of spending a night at Grandma’s house….
After dinner on a Friday night, my sister and I pile into the car with our things. Mom drives, and seven or eight minutes later, we arrive at Grandma’s little white house on Clark Street. We park on the street and head for the front door. We knock and wait anxiously for Grandma to answer. Next to the door, about five feet high, is a little covered slot where Grandma receives her mail. It always amazes me when the mail comes, slipping through that slot and down the chute, right into a compartment inside her house! After waiting for what seems like forever and contemplating all the fun I could have with that mail chute if she’d just let me play with it, the door moves, sticking slightly in the frame as a skinny arm wills it open.
Grandma has a new bandaid, along with a few bruises, on her forearm where she’s bumped into something again. Her skin is paper thin, and breaks and bruises easily. Thinning gray hair slightly askew, she wears a cute flowery housedress and slippers. When Grandma goes to town or comes to visit us at our home, she gets all fancied-up; but at home she is quite relaxed. She welcomes us in and gives us smiles and warm hugs. Her rocking chair sits in its usual place, next to the piano and aimed at the enormous television/radio console, a folding tray set up in front of the chair with a game of Solitaire in progress. Dark purple glass grapes, probably made in a Relief Society meeting, adorn the low table in front of the green and white floral couch. Portraits cover her walls: Grandma and her beloved Enos a few years before his death, each of her four sons and their wives (one of them with his first wife, although it’s been years since he remarried: Grandma liked her better than her replacement and isn’t shy about saying so), all of her many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. A rolodex-like photo album contains more recent snapshots on top of the console. The piano has a hymnal open on it, though I’ve never really heard Grandma play. My sister says that once when she came, Grandma was playing The Entertainer; but I think arthritis precludes Grandma’s playing much anymore.
Greetings complete, we head for the tiny backyard while Mom and Grandma visit. Out of the living room, past the dining area, through the little kitchen, down three steps, and out the back door. Rusting metal chairs guard the little cement patio below the kitchen window to the right, while straight ahead the clothesline runs from one rickety pole to another like a power line in miniature. She is forever telling us not to touch the lines, but it is just too tempting to race between the poles while holding the lines—loosely!—until we get caught. A six-foot red picket privacy fence separates her yard from the neighbor’s, ending on the left in a mysterious garbage compartment. Grandma puts her garbage in on one side, and then, once a week, it magically disappears! It probably has something to do with the alley on the other side of the fence. Across the alley and through the parking lot is Dad’s office. She loves having her son so near.
To the right of the patio under the guest-room window is a fascinating contraption. A big, gray pipe extends out of the house and drops into a metal box with spinning dials and numbers on it. Then another pipe comes out of the box and dives down into the ground. This device serves well as a fast-food drive-through window among other things; it would be perfect if I could just figure out the secret to making those dials stop and go!
Eventually the daylight dwindles and we return through the back door. Inside, on the landing, several six-packs of empty glass Coke and Sprite bottles wait for Grandma’s next trip to the Bi-Lo store on 15th Street. If we’re lucky, she’ll take us with her when she goes, driving with one foot on the brake and one on the gas—left, right, left, right—and significantly below the speed limit. We’ll make clicking sounds with our tongues in time with the turn signal she can’t hear and always forgets to turn off, and we’ll fight over who gets to push the button on the garage-door opener when we get back. But not this time.
This time, we make our way past the bottles, going downstairs instead of back up to the kitchen. Squeaking stairs might announce our intentions to a sharp-eared observer, but we have no cause for concern with Grandma, and we’re sure that Mom has already left. Onward we plunge, into the strange-smelling, shadowy basement. At the bottom of the stairs is the lone finished room, full to overflowing with evidence of a long, full life. Deep shag carpet in a shocking shade of crimson receives our feet. A brightly varicolored sofa sits against a wood-paneled wall, sporting red circular pillows and piles of fabric in various stages of progress towards clothing. A few kid-size puzzles perch precariously on one end of the couch. A sewing table, complete with machine and all kinds of sewing implements strewn upon it, juts out from another wall. Hanging from a portable clothes rack are her marvelous fur coats, carefully shielded in plastic garment bags.
Near the sewing table is another contraption we’ve been warned not to touch; this is different from Grandma’s other oddities in that we actually heed the warnings. I hold in awe this dangerous looking thing. Mom has told me that it is a mangle, or roller iron, used for ironing sheets. Her story of getting an arm caught in the ringer when she was a child keeps me at a healthy distance from this similar tool. Piles of paraphernalia unrecognizable lie against the other walls and spill out onto the floor, leaving a bit of space in the middle and a path leading through the room to a closed door at the back.
Beyond this door lies the unfamiliar, unfriendly, unfinished part of the basement. We only go in there if we have to, and only with Grandma. Back there, side-by-side, stand a modern washer and dryer; but there is also a two-sided washing tub where she used to wash her clothes—by hand, of all things! This room is much less crowded and much more organized, with just the laundry tools and trappings. But in the center of the unfinished area, all by itself and in direct opposition to the orderliness of the rest, is a single laundry basket with clothes haphazardly scattered in and around it. Knowing the thrilling secret of the low, little door in the upstairs hallway solves this paradox: a laundry chute! I revere this simple convenience like magic!
Enough time has passed that Grandma must be looking for us. We quickly find what we came to the basement for, and head back upstairs, puzzles in hand. We make straight for the closet by the front door and search behind the coats and things for our special little folding table and chairs. Made of green-painted metal covered with orange-peal-textured white vinyl seats and tabletop, they are just the right size for little girls. We love them dearly, though the table is scarred with a duct-tape-mended gash that one of us made with scissors. Furniture set up, we dump out our boxes and begin to puzzle.
Grandma turns the television on while we work. We love to watch TV with her, although the volume is oppressive: her hearing is terrible. While we watch the ten o’clock news on KSL—Dick Nourse’s voice booming through her little house and probably a block or two in all directions—she treats us with Sprite from dark green, curvy glass bottles. Grandma has a Coke; perhaps, later, she’ll give us a tiny sip in our cups. After the news, we watch Gunsmoke and M*A*S*H. I love sharing her favorite shows with her! They’ve become favorites of mine, too. Once, we stayed over on a Saturday night and convinced Grandma to watch Solid Gold, a music and dancing show that spotlighted the top hits of the 80s, and which we deemed to be high quality entertainment. Grandma watched about ten seconds, asked us to tell her the name again, and then said, “Solid Gold? Looks like solid S*** to me!” Spelled out, of course. Tonight we stick with the regulars.
Eventually, we head off to the guest room that will be ours for the night. Twin beds made up as tightly as any hotel’s await us in our special room. Their matching spreads are beautiful, pink, and delightfully girlie. They are positioned parallel and at the perfect separation for us to use their firm mattresses as trampolines or parallel bars, depending on our mood. We’ll jump around until we’re tired or until we’re caught. Conveniently located across from the beds is a fancy dresser, complete with mirror, that matches the head- and foot-boards on our beds. Not only can we jump and swing and dance; we can watch ourselves while we do!
A roll-top desk with an astounding number of enticing drawers graces the back wall of the little room. We know we are not supposed to disturb the papers and other things on the desk, but that doesn’t stop us from carefully, cautiously opening all the drawers to see what is in them. One of them holds the key that locks the roll-top. We love to incorporate this antique in our games, but dare not press our luck by disturbing its contents.
Just past the old desk, our own private bathroom connects at the back of the room. It is pink and frilly, like the bedroom; and it feels so grown-up to have it to ourselves.
How we ever get to sleep in this wonderful place is a mystery, but we always wake up excited the next morning. Breakfast is the most enticing part of our stays here, and today is no different. We rush out of our room and are not surprised to find that Grandma is still asleep. We will bide our time by indulging in Saturday morning cartoons and raiding her candy drawer. After two or three shows, we are ravenous—wintergreen lozenges and French burnt peanuts can only hold us for so long. We are increasingly noisy in our checking to see if Grandma has awakened yet. It is highly unlikely that she’ll hear us, or the TV, especially with her hearing aids out, but finally she wakes up around ten.
“What do you want for breakfast?” she asks.
“Scrambledy eggs and bacon!” is our enthusiastically predictable reply. As if we would ask for anything else! Grandma smiles knowingly and makes her way out of bed.
We return to our cartoons, anticipation building as we watch our shows—with our attention tuned eagerly to the sounds and smells coming from the kitchen. At long last, the torture ends, and we are invited to a beautifully set table filled with our favorite provisions. Savory bacon, carefully trimmed (yes, trimmed!) and fried to crispy perfection. Eggs, loaded with cream, flawlessly seasoned and scrambled to that fragile, fluffy deliciousness that is neither slimy nor dry. Bread, cut super thin and baked to a golden brown in her cute little toaster oven, topped with butter and her amazing homemade choke cherry jelly. And to top it all off, a gloriously cold Orange Julius that is a thousand times better than its namesake. She even broke the ice herself in a little hand-held ice-crusher to save wear on her blender! Oh, how breakfast makes us know this frail, dear woman loves us….
I can almost taste it again, here in the temple. Thank you, gray-haired, graceful lady, for reminding me of another. For thirty years, we have tried and mostly failed to replicate the flavors with which she fed us. Not just the breakfasts, but also the fried chicken and the fancy shrimp cocktails and her rolls and twice-baked potatoes and all the other special dishes she made. How I miss her! How I long to see her again! Why is it so hard to scramble an egg or fry chicken the way she did? They never taste quite the same. Did she have a special recipe? Was there a secret ingredient? Could it have been the pan she used? Did she stir with a magic spoon? Or was it just that we were starving after watching hours of cartoons on empty stomachs? I won’t know until I get to the other side, but I have a nagging suspicion that it wasn’t the recipe, or the technique, or a magic spoon, or even the hunger. It was something that she used in every single dish: a very special, not-so-secret ingredient called Love.
