Granny, after her sister’s funeral. Following the tears she kept on her shades, slip, and pearls while we sat in her library. She laughed about how pissed Diane would’ve been knowing that her makeup was done so horribly in the casket…
Sometimes I put off the most important things. You want to do folks justice. My grandmother is in everything that I do—I’ve gently honored my own inspired urge to celebrate her being in past works, but it still hasn’t clicked. Her character is delicately created, sacred, and important. How do you solidify something, someone, almost mystical? I am doing to do, and hope that we can continue to build and celebrate with time. Here is an offering.
The Art of Camouflage. “Camouflage” was the word to which I lost my sixth grade spelling bee—my knack for humility was perhaps chosen for me. My grandmother has a framed photo that has been in her Barnesville home for as long as I can remember- it is a Native American riding a horse, and the bottom the photo says “The Art of Camouflage.” I didn’t comprehend the text until my most recent visit with her over the holidays. I almost didn’t share this because we live in sensitive times, and I don’t want to unintentionally out her for something that has been such a major part of her life, or hurt someone else out of ignorance or insensitivity.
She called me after I grabbed a drink with my friend Jasmin and her new husband. Granny inquires about a postcard I sent her- “did you make this yourself?” I couldn’t fully remember but I usually only send handmade postcards so I respond “I think so.” She responds, “Ansley, you are wasting yourself!” If you heard the tone you’d know it was a nice exclamation.
She begins brainstorming of all the ways I could share my talents with whomever. For a woman with Alzheimer’s, she is still pretty sharp. She stirred an inspiration that is always there, but then I recognize that maybe we could share this moment and I begin to stir about her.
For years I’ve wanted to create something honoring her essence. In fact, I wrote a scene to present at my Springer Theatre Academy wrap-up one summer that featured her. A few years ago, I needed real word-of-mouth intel on an old star for a work project, so I called her and she spent hours telling me everything there was to know about this character. Every time we’ve talked since- “Ya know, he had two famous pets,” and whatever else had popped in her head since previous conversations.
Here is the really fun part. The thing I have always been curious, excited, perplexed, and impressed by…
I counted: Granny, or Sandra Elaine Daniel Usery, has 273 binders in her library filled with the scrapbooked chronicles of any old famous movie star you can think of, probably from before the 60’s.
TWO-HUNDRED-AND-SEVENTY-THREE.
That is a lifetime of studying the lives and careers of our biggest first wave Hollywood movie stars. Like they were friends. The curiosity…
I always remember Granny being glamorous, but she didn’t have an interest in being recognized for that. She dichotomously took in wild animals and saved hurt birds on the side of the road, let woodpeckers build homes in her home, and gave me and my twin brother, Daniel, more cookies than we could stomach. She also loved sweets. She made pallets on the floor of her living-room for me and my cousins, and sang beautiful little songs I had never heard before while doing little dances that I had never seen before. Very softly, mind you—her voice weakened as she grew older, “because of her allergies.” She was allergic to both cats and dogs but didn’t let it stop her from loving on them. This is all too familiar.
Granny wanted to be a movie star in her adolescence. She started going to “the picture” as a lil kid with her dad, and said she immediately fell in love with it. She got hand-me-down magazines from a neighbor and began cutting the movie stars out and putting them in notebooks. She collected tabs from old milk cartons in exchange for a photo of a star. She acted, was voted “most attractive” in high school, and then had a teacher in college, Miss Stacey, tell her she was too sensitive to ever make it in the biz.
She met my grandfather and chose him. They had my dad, Chad, and his younger sister, my aunt, Stacey. Recently I found out that Stacey was named after Miss Stacey, the teacher. When I asked her about the connection, she didn’t feel the need to go too much into detail about it. She loves her kids, she loves her grandkids, and she loved her husband. It was a simple matter of fact that this was the life she had chosen.
I think I came into the world loving Granny. (Note: She tried to get me and my brother, Daniel, to change this to “Grammy” as my younger cousins were born and she thought it sounded better, but it was too late. She is Granny to us, Grammy to them.)
We sat in her library watching movies and eating cookies. We saw the workshop. It was a very natural thing to see.
She has always taken a great pride in this movie star collection. More and more, especially as I myself get older, I can see why- it is a life’s work.
When you ask her about any of the original movie stars, (“old movie stars” seems off,) she names the films they’ve been in, but also almost always pairs it with all of the hard times they faced. And those hard times were publicized. When I walked into her library during this most recent visit, there was a magazine with Shirley Temple’s photo as a child and a title that said “The Dark Side of Old Hollywood.”
As I open up with the intent of understanding, I wonder if she had an unspoken desire to justify not going for that dream. I asked her and she said she just loved the glamour of it all.
She is always supportive. Always honest, but always supportive.
When I kept thinking about acting, she assured me that if Melissa McCarthy & Rebel Wilson were doing it, I could too. We didn’t skirt around the obvious truth that I enjoyed food. She warned me of all the politics and the need to make connections for it to be a practical endeavor. When I swerved towards comedy she was supportive in that, although we didn’t know how to connect about it as easily - my dad was our thread there. When I swerved towards painting little postcards she pushed me to go intern with local art programs. When I swerved towards getting a lil business job to pay bills and slow down, she celebrated.
Sometimes I wonder about tradition, and the karma, I guess you could call it, of our ancestors. As I go along my journey I wonder if I should use her offerings to do the thing we so feared…
and as I write this, I wonder which I would fear more: pursuing an artistic career for ages of struggling in the hopes that I’ll meet external validation, or sitting still with that soft inner voice reminding me to be here now, and that love is a practice in presence and gratitude, which might be thankless, but it might be lighter too.
Granny makes the world better. Within reason, her life has been of her own creation and choices. Now, if you ask her if she wishes she had done anything differently, the presentation of the idea almost feels absurd. When you meet her, you’ll understand that she is good as can be—pleased to enjoy a private and rich existence, with no one invited to judge.