Crazy Like Me

Where you come from and where you end up are two completely different places, or are they? I guess....I come from nowhere. A dot on a map, but when I think about it, it's not just where we come from, but who we come from. I come from a long crazy string of women. The men folk just didn't fair well in our line. God put the men in the mix to make the babies, and then I think he took them out to spare them the crazies. Let me explain.... I'll go back to my great grandmother, mind you these are all my mothers side of the family, as stated the men , including my dad didn't last long so I don't know anyone on my fathers side. Where was I, yes, my great grandmother, Buela Inez, she was strong, (I kill poultry with my own bare hands strong). I never knew my great grandpa, he died young of electrocution, while wiring the house they built together. My great granny never called me by my name, til the day she died she called me baby. I wonder looking back on the alzhiemers that had set in, if she just forgot my name, but nonetheless baby stuck with the family til I was a teenager. I remember living with her when I was a child, she told wonderful stories, and sometimes when she wasn't in her right mind she relived the days when she carried a gun. Try keeping a god fearing woman on a mission from a gun, not pretty. Everyday she wore her hair in a bun, and her flower aprons were never missing from her dress. She was beautiful, and I miss her. She once shot a peeping tom, found out who he was and threatened to shoot him again. I learned a lot from that old lady. yep yep... Then there was my grandma, I called her sis. Come to think of it, everybody called her sis. She wasn 't about to let the line of women in the family die off either. She had five girls, back to back. Sis was a free spirit. Way ahead of her time. I can't say she was the best parent, but having kids and raising kids are two separate things, and she made up for it by a being a damn fine grandma. My mom and aunts would disagree. She loved me always, no matter what. I think I get my sense of adventure from her. She use to be what I would call a church hopper. She went where the worship was good and the food was better, best part, she would take me. She took me to my first black church. My smiling shining white head sticking out in a mass of black children, I would love to have had a picture. It was great. She knew everyone, and she walked everywhere. Later on when I was a teenager,my difficult years, she let me live with her. She was so cool, always ready to try anything. One day she took my bike and crashed into the railroad tracks. We had to rush her to the hospital for a broken shoulder, she made me swear I would never tell what really happened. I never did. I came home from school one day and found her in the floor, I remember breaking the door, and the sound of the busy signal on the phone. I remember the ambulance ride and the lady giving me her jewelry. I remember waiting for an adult to show up. She had a stroke, and it devastated me. I will never forgive myself for the sadness I couldn't hide from her. When I could drive I went to see her in the nursing home on Christmas. I was the only person that went. She told me she wanted to see the snow, and she asked if I saw the little girl that had just left. The little girl was never there and four days later on Dec 29th, it snowed. In my heart I know the little girl was her angel, and I cried as they buried my grandmother in the snow. You won't believe me, but everytime I think of her, or when my heart hurts, a snow white feather will fall from nowhere. Her spirit is still free. That brings me to my mother. I won't tell you much about her because I'm still learning myself. Growing up, she wasn't strong like my great grand mother, and her spirit wasn't f free, perhaps because she had to grow up to soon. She quit school early to take care of her sisters, or to help anyway, and she never thought she was good enough. However, at th e ripe old age of 58 my mother learned to drive, which was great for all parties involved. It gave her a new freedom, and a huge ego boost. I love my mother, she gave up everything for us. She spent her whole life working at shitty jobs just to take care of us. Now she is taking care of herself for a change, that makes me happy. That brings us back to me, one in a line of crazy women. I'm difficult, stubborn, irrrational, frightened, stupid, and sometimes crazy, but some people love me despite that. That's why it's okay to be crazy like me...