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For My Grandmother, Doris

My grandmother Doris (Dor Dor) left us ten years ago today; thirty-three years and one day after we

Dor Dor
Dor Dor

lost my Aunt Joyce.

It’s a bit ironic that the dates of their deaths follow so closely as of the three women in my family – my grandmother, mother and aunt – my grandmother and aunt were most alike in temperament.

Both were born under the same zodiac sign, Capricorn, only 9 days separating their birth dates. Both had the same easygoing nature and would find fun in any situation. One of the things I remember about them is the playful nicknames they created for people they knew. But they’d only use them behind the person’s back. My mom, the cautious one, would warn them that one day they’d call the person by the nickname by accident. Thankfully, it never happened.

A few weeks ago, I was swapping stories about her with a cousin. She told me of the time she was visiting and noticed a lone breadfruit on a tree in the backyard at my grandmother’s house. She remarked how lovely the breadfruit looked and my grandmother said she planned to cook it for dinner that evening. Shortly after that exchange, someone my grandmother knew passed by, noticed the breadfruit and asked my grandmother for it. My cousin was speechless when Dor Dor told him to “Take it, my boy!” That’s how she was. She’d give you the shirt off her back, if you needed it.

Dor Dor’s house was never empty. After her children moved away and began having families of their own, she welcomed grandchildren, close family members, strangers – anyone who felt they needed a bed or a place to stay. She never turned anyone away.

She rarely disciplined an errant child but when she did, it was swift. One slap and she had your attention. In her later years, when the great-grandchildren started coming, she’d keep sweets, small trinkets, and money in her pocket to press into a child’s hand whenever they visited.

Sometimes I laugh out loud when I remember how her face would crease and her eyes would twinkle when my mother caught her spicing her conversation with one or two colorful Jamaican words.

Dor Dor loved flowers and always said she’d be going to Heaven to plant roses. I smile now because I know Heaven is more beautiful because of her presence.

Remembering My Aunt Joyce

Since November began, I’ve been thinking a lot of my Aunt Joyce who passed away on this date 43 years ago. She was a beautiful woman, funny, straightforward and very popular. Everyone called her Ms. Joyce, sometimes Ms. Spence, rarely ever Mrs. Spence.

When she left us, she was only 39 – old enough to marry and have four children, too early to watch them grow up and see who would look most like her or take after her in temperament, and way too soon to see her any of her eight grandchildren.

As the only two girls, she and my mother were as close as any two siblings could be but as different as apples and oranges.  Where my mother was punitive, she was fun. Where she was strict, she was playful. Where my mother would settle for just some face cream, she needed the drama of color.

According to my mother, I got my “fastidiousness” from her. She used to tell me that whenever Aunt Joyce got paid, she would bring fabric to make dresses for me. As soon as I saw the fabric, I’d hold it up against my body and parade in front of the mirror, making sure, I guess that the color suited my skin tone and that I liked it. My mother swore I got that from Aunt Joyce because she was the one who loved clothes.

My mom was probably right. I perfected vanity at her feet. On the rare morning when Aunt Joyce was early for work, I’d sit and watch her add a splash of red to her lips, a dab of rouge to her cheeks, a swipe of pencil to fill in her brows. Like her, I never leave the house with my face bare.

She also taught me how to read a clock or at least know what numbers the hour and second hands were on. Whenever she’d yell, “What time is it?” my other cousin and I would race each other to look at the clock in the dining room and scream back, “The short hand is on 8 and the long hand is on 10!” Most times she’d yell back, “Tell me when the long hand is on 11!” and we’d try to sit still and watch the staccato movement of the long hand as it marched towards 7:55. Sometimes, before we could shout the time, we would hear her bursting through the bedroom door and both of us would trail behind her to watch as she jumped on her bicycle and head towards the gate usually throwing back some admonition to behave or a message for the woman who took care of us while she was at work.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her or something she’d say or do. Now that both my mother, grandmother and uncle are gone, I often wonder if they’re recalling the stories we remember.

 

For Ken on July 19th

July is a busy month for my family. We celebrate a cluster of birthdays from July 10 to the 16th. Then on July 19th, I stop to remember my father. It is on this day in 1996 that he broke the only promise he ever made to me. “I don’t plan on going anywhere,” he’d said. But by July, he was gone.

Like my mother, my father was larger than life in my eyes. They had separated after I was born but he was never really out of our lives. He visited as often as he could and wrote regularly to my mother.

Through her eyes, I got to know a man who “cut a dashing figure in his uniform.” He was intelligent, chivalrous, charming and strong in his beliefs.

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