Blogs

By Steve Eskew

I’m becoming my great grandmother. Not exactly a dream come true for a strapping macho man of my merit, now is it? Can I help it if I’m so dadgum impressionable?

Here’s how I arrived at that conclusion: I remembered that I had warned readers once about learning the hard way, like I did, against making faces at humorless authoritarian soreheads like bartenders, cops and judges.

I inherited my face-making penchant in pure honesty, I tell ya. And from the least likely of all people — from me mostly sweet great grandmum. In her reckless but totally sober 20s, she made faces at neighbors, fellow shoppers and even PTA members who riled her.

Be advised, Grand was no looney tune. She simply snapped when people stared at her, while wearing condescending expressions on their faces. “Instead of smacking someone, I made faces at them,” she said.

In retrospect, Grand confessed to regretting what she later labeled as “tacky overreactions.” She explained that for years she’d been too poor to dress well.

“I was as clean as a whip but I was no fashion plate. I guess I looked like a bag lady to some city slickers,” she said. “Anyway, I finally decided making faces was too much work. From then on, I simply flipped the bird, giving detractors the almighty finger.”

As for poverty, in her youth Grand wallpapered her living room with outdated newspapers, joking that her home reigned as the most informative in the state.

Like grandmum, like grandson, I’ve certainly given people the finger and I’ve also wallpapered my den with old clips of my publications. And to think I had attributed that quirk to my acute narcissism and pretentious personality.

Turns out that I was simply contributing to the pathetic process of becoming my great grandmother. Oy. Let’s face it, my therapist is fighting a losing battle. This metamorphosis is bigger than both of us.

Grand’s moot manners still dominate my daily decisions. When I’m provoked to curse, Grand’s image pops into my noggin, scolding out “For shame, Stevie.” Yup, foul as some of Grand’s reactions could be, her idea of heavy cursing was to utter “Oh, mercy gracious!”

A staunch suffragette, Grand marched for women’s rights. She would have praised me for honoring her by writing my journalism thesis from a feminist perspective. On the other hand, she would have been baffled as to why I chose to compare the films Yentl and Thelma and Louise.

Grand adored me. Who wouldn’t? But she never understood my humor. After a punchline like — “And then the girl’s mother gasped: “Prostitute? Oh, thank heavens! I thought you said you wanted to become a Protestant” — Grand would inquire: “Then what did her father say?”

Grand had not an inkling as to how funny she herself was. For instance, when I was about 10, I heard my mother mention the name Eleanor Roosevelt. “Who’s Eleanor Roosevelt, Mom?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s a wonderful woman, a former First Lady, a genuine mensch, abundant with poise and personality and universally admired. Eleanor Roosevelt oozes class and — "

“Who’s that?” asked Grand. “I didn’t hear the name.”

“Eleanor Roosevelt! Mom gushed.

“Oh, mercy gracious,” Grand grunted, “If ever a homelier mortal lived, I don’t know who it would be.”

Everyone there burst into gales of belly laughs due to such contrasting descriptions. Everyone except Grand. She didn’t get it.

Grand’s misuse and mispronunciations of words rated downright adorable. A reigning queen of malapropisms, she claimed to possess a “photogenic” memory” and she detested “decapitated” coffee.

Grand exhibited other funny quirks with her habit of emphasizing certain words by spelling them: “I didn’t say I hate Mrs. Trippy. I said I hate Mississippi–M-i-double-s-i-double-s-i double p-i.”

When comatose, she weakly uttered that awful final gurgling. I spoke up: “What did you say, Grand?” She shouted “Gurgle! G-u-r-g-l-e!”

I swear her penchant for emphatically spelling out certain words seems to have drifted down the family gene pool.

When I learned that we were going to become great grandparents ourselves, I asked my grandson what the baby’s name would be.

“Baizlee.”

“Say again?”

My grandson took a deep breath and said: “Baizlee, B-a-i-z-l-double e.”

“Why did you say “double e? Why not simply e-e?”

“I don’t know, Grandpa. That’s how I’ve always spelled consecutive letters.”

"Oh, mercy gracious!"

— Steve Eskew

Thank God liberal arts courses are so easy. Even retired businessman Steve Eskew received a pair of master’s degrees in both dramatic arts and communication studies from the University of Nebraska at Omaha after he turned 50. When asked to take over a professor’s theater column at The Daily Nonpareil in Council Bluffs, Iowa, Steve began a career as a quasi-journalist. Narrowly by the luck of the Irish, this led to numerous publications including theater and book reviews, profiles and Steve’s favorite genre, humor writing. Check out his new humor blog, ESKEWPADES.