Of laundry and hearts

I was 17, and Dad had given me 16 hours to move out. Suffice it to say that I was a good kid, and that Dad had his demons. My grandmother, his mother, sheltered me in her home for a few weeks while I looked for long-term digs. Dad refused ever to speak to Gram again.
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Among the many life skills this then–17–year–old lacked were laundering and ironing. Gram willingly assumed those tasks for me, offering to continue once I found a new place to stay.

In time, the family of my best–friend–since–age–11 offered to take me in. My friend’s mom, Beverly, even offered to do my laundry with the rest of the family’s. She would hardly notice the extra, she assured me.

At the news, Gram went ballistic, conjuring up accusation after accusation directed at Beverly. That horrible woman was sure to ruin my clothes! Gram ranted on, refusing to let it rest. 

I am and have always been slow to anger, but after a half–hour the harangue was getting to me. A strong rebuke welled up. But suddenly, some remote corner of my brain spoke calm. It said, Gram needs to be needed. She’s afraid of being replaced. You’re the youngest, the only one left who relies on her. Instead of defending Beverly, how about you address the real issue?

I drew a breath and looked at my seething grandmother. “Anyone can do my laundry,” I said, “but nobody else can be my grandmother.”

She was instantly calmed. 

My mouth often blurts without bothering to consult the Inner Executive Committee. Here I am, better than 50 years later, ever grateful to said Committee for butting in and turning what could have been a regrettable memory into a tender one. 

I stayed with my friend’s family for 18 months—but I continued bringing my laundry to Gram. To be sure, she did me a big service. But, I had come to realize, I did her one by letting her do it for me.