When I was growing up, my maternal grandfather, who we called Pa, had Parkinson’s disease and was grumpy all the time. Virtually immobile, he was confined to his bed or a recliner in front of the TV. When my sister and I visited my grandparents, he yelled at us as we ran through the house “like a herd of buffalo.”
The only time I ever heard Pa laugh was during Sanford and Son, a show I didn’t understand.
Therefore, we spent a lot of time with Grandma, who completely endorsed and joined in all the fun we were having. She doctored our boo-boos and made us cheese and crackers. We watched her fry pork bacon and make Wonder Bread sandwiches for Pa. On days when she had time, Grandma would help us sew clothes for the cats and our Barbies. At night in her bed, we'd lie in the dark telling "ribald" jokes. She had a great one about eating peas. I still giggle every time I think of it.*
On the really exciting days, we followed her around to feed the chickens, collect the eggs, and butcher and pluck those same chickens for after-church dinner.
(Both of my grandmothers butchered chickens: the one from Switzerland got after them with a hatchet. It really is true that a chicken can run with its head cut off. This grandmother used her shoe on the neck of the bird and employed a quick twist of the wrist. It was awful – but awfully effective.)
Notwithstanding the smell of boiled chicken feathers, I’d give my right pinkie finger to be able to go back and pluck a dead chicken with my grandmother again.
Except for a few protracted, painful long walks to the bathroom using his crutches, I never saw my grandfather leave his La-Z-Boy except at night when he went to bed. Our mom said he was in pain so we should be nice, but all I knew was that Pa yelled at us from the recliner, and my grandmother told us jokes and fed us a lot of cheese.
As a 6-year-old, if you’d asked me if I liked my grandfather, I’d have shrugged while trying not to say "no." He did nothing for me, and that was very important at an age where others exist to cater to a small human's needs. My little body was healthy and whole; his was breaking down. I explored my wide world and all its wonders; his was confined to a chair and daytime television.
Now I’d give my left pinkie finger to fry up some pork bacon, make Pa a Wonder Bread sandwich, and sit and watch Sanford and Son. I missed an opportunity to share my world with him.
So let's recap:
Give up right pinkie because I want to pluck dead chickens with my grandmother.
Give up left pinkie because I’d like to watch Sanford and Son with my grandfather.
Summary: Down two fingers but up two grandparents.
~~~
*Grandma's ribald joke (exactly how she told it, too):
“Now, don't tell your mother I told you this:
"One day, there was this fancy to-do, and all the rich folks dressed up to go to the party. The ladies wore their tiaras and feathered boas and all their jewelry, and the men wore tuxedos with top hats.
"At dinner, they all sat down at this long table and were served the food by all the servants. One of the ladies, who was a high-falutin' one, you see, thought a lot of herself. As the butler asked, 'Peas, madam?', she sighed and said snootily, 'Oh my, I haven't had a good pea in ten years!'
"The butler, without changing his expression, looked at the rest of the diners and said, 'Everyone who can't swim, reach for the chandeliers!'"
