Remembering my grandmother "Neenie" on her birthday

 IdaMae Skiles Hobbs "Neenie" 12/18/1901 -- 11/27/1997

My grandmother was born at home in what is now considered a "census-designated place" in the "hard coal" (anthracite) region of Cambria County, Pennsylvania. She was the second-youngest of 11 children, the daughter of a raging abusive mother and a benign, kindhearted railroadman father. Her childhood hero was her brother Harry, who served in the Army in WWI, came home a hero and bought the town's first automobile, and apparently introduced her to all the cutest boys. Neenie remained an accomplished flirt until the day she died.

She left school early and went to work in a nearby clothing factory. She married my grandfather, a coal miner, in 1926 and they quickly found themselves standing in as informal foster parents to my Uncle Rich, the son of Neenie's younger sister. My mother (little IdaMae) followed shortly after, in 1929. Uncle Rich's mother was eventually able to care for him and he left the household but always cherished "Aunt" as a second mother. When he served in New Guinea in WWII, he used scrap metal from a downed Japanese plane to make her a bracelet with floral designs and "Aunt" in a central medallion.

Moving from patch town to patch town was frequent, as the mines often "worked out" or my grandfather lost his temper over real and imagined slights and quit on the spot. Neenie had a homemaker's heart but was never really able to establish a true home because they were never in one place for more than a year.

In 1951, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, resulting in a radical mastectomy and a completely cancer-free life thereafter. I realize this makes no clinical sense but I chuckle to myself that Neenie's ferocity and grit scared the malignant cells away.

Once my mother was established, licensed as a nurse and seriously dating my father, Neenie put her size 5 foot down and said "Enough. We are moving out of this coal dust and constant moving and we are going to either Florida or California. You can pick which one. If you decide you're staying here, you'll stay alone because I AM GOING." Papa Hobbs quietly surrendered and agreed to move to California. Nobody knew at the time they'd become part of a statistical phenomenon we'd later study as the "postwar boom."

The drive in 1955 to Los Angeles was the longest trip any of them had ever taken (except my WWII veteran dad, who decided to come along, get a quickie Reno divorce from his first wife and marry my mother, his emerald-eyed dream girl). Route 66--another postwar cliche--was their route for most of the trip, but they indulged in a lot of side jaunts for sightseeing. Chicago ("Chicaga" when she said it), the Grand Canyon and finally the Santa Monica pier left the deepest impressions on Neenie.

The two couples arrived in the Golden State with their terrier Ted in a pickup truck and a Studebaker, having sold or given away most of their furniture and household accoutrements.

Within weeks, a small house in Hollywood was home and my grandmother, ever the homemaker and seamstress, set about making curtains and slipcovers. My parents were married in August and my grandfather worked one of the minor California Potteries, Winfield China (yes, I still have a house full of the stuff). Neenie was, at long last, away from obligatory visits to her cruel mother and the constant threat of mining disasters. Life was good and stayed that way for a few years.

My grandfather died unexpectedly in 1957, having suffered a heart attack on a fishing trip out of Santa Monica. Neenie went to pieces and howled like a professional mourner about what would become of her (there wasn't much money saved up, thanks to my grandfather's capricious relationship with long-term work). My father insisted she move in with them and they became a household of three for several years.

When I came along after a series of stillbirths and infant deaths, my grandmother became my caretaker, the stay-at-home "third parent" to baby jillie ("Baby Dumplin'") and the center of my world. She looked after me with love and indulgence, driving me to kindergarten, piano lessons and the very early elementary grades, then deciding I was old enough to walk once I hit third grade. Every year for my birthday she bought me a special dress (which my mother usually insisted I save for Easter); every Halloween she made my costume; and every Christmas she commandeered my mother's vast collection of decor to ensure the entire house was bedecked and embellished.

When my parents went out for dates, she and I stayed home and watched Lawrence Welk (to this day, I can't stand snotty jokes about Lawrence Welk), Bonanza and whatever else she fancied. The apex of a big Saturday night was getting to sleep in Neenie's bed, under a silky, puffy, fluffy pink comforter with a feather design. Her best friend Helen soon became a part of the family, my "other grandmother," my Tia Helen and the source of the persimmon cookie recipe that I cherish to this day. I don't remember a holiday dinner without Neenie and Helen yakking like schoolgirls from start to finish.

She wasn't perfect. When I sassed, she "told on me" to my parents, often with enough embellishments to make her side of the dispute look pure and unsullied. When her friends did something she disapproved of, she was quick to get on the phone and gossip. When my room was messy, she'd click her tongue and ask "What'll they say if they see this mess?" (She never specified who "they" were.) If my skirt was too short (and my skirt was NEVER too short because Jack and IdaMae would have handed me my head), she tut-tutted and wondered if "they" would think I was "one of THOSE girls." But somehow things worked out quickly. Neenie was always ready to give me a hug, sweep the dispute under the rug with no discussion and carry on as if nothing had ever happened.

But every December 18, Christmas was shelved for one special night. There was an order of service for Neenie's birthday: both Mother and Daddy called home from their workplaces to sing "Happy Birthday," the afternoon was spent primping in anticipation of going out for a celebratory dinner, at which Neenie always--ALLLWAAAYYSS--chose grilled halibut. Some years there was white cake at home (the baking of which I took over in junior high because little IdaMae in the kitchen was never a good idea) and other years she requested custard pie instead. Presents consisted of sparkly things, Shalimar, warm robes and soft nightgowns. We all sang and she blew out her candles.

Life went on, I went away to school and eventually returned home, my mother retired, my dad died, and Neenie developed heart trouble. At 93, she was, by her doctor's reckoning, the oldest patient to have an angioplasty at a large hospital in Los Angeles. (I think the procedure wasn't done routinely here in OC on people in their 90s?) My mother and I were scared, but Neenie took my hand and said "Don't worry, Baby Dumplin'. I'll dance at your wedding." And she did, just a few months later. Not only did she dance at my wedding, she caught the bouquet (probably the result of a gentle conspiracy among my girlfriends).

When my son came along and we camped out at my mother's house for a while, she insisted on giving him his last bottle before bedtime because she was the only one who could "do it right." Not his father, who had previously been married and had a child; not my mother, the trained nurse who'd worked in pediatrics for years; and certainly not me, his mother. Nope, only Neenie was qualified to give that last bedtime bottle, rocking him gently in her upholstered, overstuffed chair until he fell asleep.

This is probably deeply unsound from a theological perspective, but I like to think Neenie is enjoying ethereal iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing, heavenly halibut, sanctified mashed potatoes, celestial white cake and absolutely no vegetables whatsoever. I like to think she's sitting around with my parents and my grandfather, beaming and giggling like the belle that she was. I like to think I'll be a part of that birthday party someday. But until then, may she rest in peace and may light perpetual shine upon her. 

See less

Edit

All reactions:

21Cheryl Diamond, Marcy Shands-Brown and 19 others

The Christmas Pins

The pin. The brooch, the breast pin, the circle pin, the cluster, the bar. A hallmark of dressed-up midcentury women from sea to shining sea. Not unlike a precursor to the late Madeline Albright, my mother collected pins and more pins. No outfit was complete without a pin, and her Christmas pin collection was unrivaled.

In his customary sentimental fashion, my father ritualized the giving and owning of Christmas pins. Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, he and I would get dressed up and go Christmas shopping. (This was long before “Black Friday” was institutionalized as a monument to greed and boorish behavior. Roads and stores were crowded, to be sure, but people seemed to agree on a code of behavior. Everyone waited politely in lines, greeted sales staff, chatted with those around them and extended good wishes for the season. I admit I’m biased, but I like to say we were more civilized then.)

Toward the end of the daylong shopping excursion, Daddy would wander to the costume jewelry area – which in those days took up three or four counters in a large department store – and begin the painstaking selection of three Christmas pins. One was for my mother, one for my grandmother and one for me. No pin on display went unexamined and I stood by patiently as he described my mother’s red hair, green eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion to saleswomen who showed a genuine interest in selling him just the right thing. (I have no idea if they genuinely cared or just wanted to make a sale, and I don’t care. They made him happy.) Finally at long last, he’d select a rhinestone-bedecked Christmas tree or a jaunty gold reindeer for the love of his life.

My grandmother’s pin was harder to find. For 11 months of the year, she frankly proclaimed her dislike of pins and never wore them. But come December, she became a good sport, happily putting a pin on every blouse and jacket, in an effort to spare my father’s feelings. Her favorite color was red and she loved what we would today call “bling,” preferring the “aurora borealis” rhinestones that were popular at the time. I could feel Daddy’s frustration at trying to find the right thing for her coupled with his terror of anything he considered garish or gaudy, but he always managed to find something beautiful.

I was easy and relatively content with whatever he chose, and Daddy knew I favored slightly simpler, more youthful designs. The first pin I remember getting was a simple gold Christmas tree with tiny red and green rhinestones as its “ornaments.” But during the shopping trip, I never saw exactly what he got me – that had to be a surprise when we got home.

When, at long last, we finally arrived home, the house looked like Santa’s village. The 12-foot vaulted ceiling in the living room hosted a tree that was probably 11 ½ feet, with not a needle unadorned. Most of the lights were the old C-9 bulbs with only a few “twinklers.” In the family room was a silver aluminum tree trimmed in red and gold ball ornaments and ONLY red and gold ball ornaments. That was a rule that no one dared violate, lest the incur the wrath of two exhausted, hardheaded women. There was a large Styrofoam church with a music box that played “O Come, All Ye Faithful” on a small table in the entry hall and four decorative felt stockings hung over the fireplace. I’m embarrassed to admit a lighted Santa face smiled down on people as they . . . uhhhh . . . used the bathroom. The kitchen was decorated, the bedrooms were decorated . . . not a surface was left blank in that whole house.

Daddy would hastily rush to a hall closet, designated as “his” for the season, so he could hide most of the presents he’d bought that day. But there was always a small bag in his hand, usually from Marion and Toni’s gift shop at Knott’s Berry Farm or Robinson’s before the May Company merger. With a great air of mystery, he’d ask us all to gather at the “breakfast nook” in the galley-shaped kitchen (yep, the bench was upholstered in turquoise Naugahyde). Mother and Neenie took this as a signal to eat leftover Thanksgiving pie. We all knew what was going on but we all feigned surprise as, one by one, he took the pins out of the bag, presenting them with great flourish “to my girls for an early Christmas.” Mother’s always came first, then Neenie’s, then mine.

They’re all gone now, my three dear ones. But the pins remain, a glistening reminder of the love and warmth of our family Christmases. I wear them proudly, occasionally cursing the failing pin mechanisms and missing rhinestones. Each time I put one on, I’m a young girl again for just a minute, loved and loving and full of anticipation. Call me a sentimental fool, call me a heretic, but I like to believe they see me wearing those pins and know how much comfort and joy they bring me.

Those are the crown jewels of MY realm.