Grandma's House

By

Karen W. Waggoner

       At Wal-mart, the supermarket, the vet’s office, or in our backyards, my neighbor’s conversation moved in one direction.  “They’re still with me,” she would say. “Every time I talk them into moving out, they rent a place until the landlord comes to collect the overdue rent.  Then they move back in with me.”    Eulalia’s deep sighs matched the vertical lines between her eyes.  “What with feeding them and three kids and two dogs and all those cats, I just don’t have enough money or time to do anything.  I haven’t been able to sleep in my own bed for six months.” 

       My response usually had only one focus too.  “You know, sometimes parents and grandparents do too much for their kids.  Then they can’t say ‘no’ when it’s the only sensible thing to say.”  I felt bad for her, but I thought she’d brought the problem on herself.

        Eulalia allowed the granddaughter to move into her little house years before, and the girl was pregnant before Grandma could put together a Dollar General wedding.  The new husband, a slick-faced eighteen-year old boy, couldn’t seem to hang on to a job long enough to move his bride out of Grandma’s house.  When the young mother proudly showed her baby to me, I noted that she was expecting another child.  I asked her if they’d be able to have a place of their own soon, and I guess she correctly understood I was not altogether approving of the young couple’s usurping my neighbor’s house and Social Security check..  She said, “I can have all the babies I want.  After all, I’m married!”  I choked on my reply and managed to say nothing.  After all, it was too late and none of my business.

         The couple moved out of Grandma’s house at least three times that I can recall over a period of nearly eight years.  Each time, within months, they were back; their belongings stowed in Grandma’s garage and all over the lawn.  The only thing that changed was the number of children and cats.  Each time I encountered Eulalia, we had the same conversation.  She complained about having the crowd in her house, and I suggested she assert herself until one day last year when I said, “I suspect that as long as you’re in that house where they can get a free roof over their heads, they’ll never be able to take care of themselves.”  Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded.

The next time I saw her, she grinned.  “You’ll be interested to know that I’ve listed my house with a realtor.”

“Wow,” I said.”

“Yes, I’ve decided to go away.

“No kidding!”

“How’s Honduras sound to you?”

I was momentarily speechless until I gathered my wits to say, “Do you know anyone there?”

“Nope.  Not a soul.”

The shipper’s van is in front of her house today.  Eulalia is going to Honduras where her Social Security check will make her comfortable at last.  The children, cats, dogs, and junk are gone, and I want to tell her she’s my hero before it’s too late.