Grampy Meets His Match

Bernadine Ann - 1946

An important part of Grampy's life was and always will be his late wife, my mother in Law, Bernie. When I met her in 1971 she was 90 lbs., 4'10", and a red-headed spitfire, inside and out. The kids called her Grandma B. I called her "Scrappy". (But never to her face.) She was Grampy's perfect sparring partner. And spar they did. They couldn't have a simple conversation without eventually disagreeing and arguing—loudly. Even on a subject as innocuous as the weather. "It was HAWT in the Cah(car)" she'd say in her deep Massachusets accent " What the hell are you talking about old woman?" Grampy would protest " It's only 88 outside! " "Go to hell, Tex!" she'd shout " It's HAWT!"

Current view of the House that Tex Built in 1953

Grampy loved the country, Bernie loved the city. Grampy loved chicken farming and collecting lumber. Bernie loved slot machines and shopping. When he said tomato, she'd counter with tomawtta. For several years in the 50's they lived in a little house Grampy built in the middle of nowhere. A little pink and gray home with gingerbread trim in the California desert with their three young boys—as far from town as Grampy could get without hearing the threat of divorce. Bernie hated it, but she endured. Much to her disgust, Grampy raised and butchered chickens in the back yard. She endured. Grampy eventually let his alcoholic loud mouthed father come live with them there. She endured. The boys rode their bikes like wild Indians in the surrounding desert, often bringing home snakes and tarantulas just to torment mama. Bernie endured.

Endurance was in her genes. Grandma B. was born Bernadine Ann which is a perfectly lovely name For a girl, but it was nonetheless quickly shortened to Bernie. She was the baby in the family and the only sister in a brood of 9 brothers. They all lived in a tiny upstairs apartment on the wrong side of the tracks in Lawrence, Mass. Although her family was French/Italian, they grew up in an Irish neighborhood and so they thought they were Irish. Those boys were rowdy miscreants, known for bar fighting, gambling, and any other sort of mischief they could dream up—often dragging little Bernie along with them on their adventures. Her mother, God rest her soul, provided for those kids alone after her husband was gone. There was no government help in the early 20th century for widows. You just worked two or three jobs instead of one to make ends meet and that she did, leaving her children to raise themselves.

Tex and Bernie knew 41 years of holy (and I use the term loosely) matrimony. She fought and cajoled until Tex finally agreed to move them, in their later years, to Laughlin, NV. They bought a double-wide down by the Colorado river where she was finally content. Slot machines and Bingo games were just a hop, skip and a jump down the dirt road. But it was Colon cancer that finally delivered the knock out punch to my feisty mother in law. She put up one heck of a fight but died in the hospital in 1997, Grampy at her side. When she surrendered her last breath he was watching her like a hawk then climbed into that bed with her, holding her for as long as he could for the last time. In spite of their tumultous past, she was his soulmate and he loved her. That's how the nurses found them.

After the funeral, as we were sorting through and boxing up her things, he seemed to me so lost and defeated. My heart went out to him. "I don't know how I'm supposed to go on without her" he told me in a tiny voice as we were working. "Dad you just endure. You just endure. That's what Mama would do." He nodded his head. "Yeah, I know" he mumbled. He quietly stood up a minute later and pulled the cardboard flaps down on the box he'd been filling, looking around the room while he did— "Now where the hell did that woman leave the damn packing tape!"