My grandmother, Daisy, was deaf. I don't know how she became deaf, or if she was always deaf. I didn't know her until she was 63 or 64, and she was always deaf in my lifetime.
I also don't know why we called her by her name. It's not like our family was progressive or modern. My aunt called her Mother, but everyone else called her Daisy.
She wasn't deaf in a sweet way, where she wore hearing aids or we learned sign language. There was a lot of shouting in trying to communicate with her, sometimes through a paper towel roll.
Daisy was a belligerent old woman who always had one pant-leg rolled up, wore a large men's buttoned shirt most of the time, drank Coors and dipped snuff. A Sweet Garrett drinking glass still makes me feel sentimental.
She called my step-sister Merlody, or some other ridiculous malformation of her name, Melodie. She called my dad's house and never said hello in an inquiring way. She would just start yelling "Mick", supposing it was always my dad answering. She called me Lesluh Ann, Lessie Annie or Ang, short for angel, which I was not.
I don't think she had any deep thoughts or introspection. Not to say she was stupid or anything, she just came from a time when that wasn't done. A time when you didn't navel-gaze because you were worried about getting cotton in or killing chickens.
I don't know when her birthday was. It never came up in any conversation. Mostly we were trying to keep her from killing herself while driving, or grossing out over her spilled spit can.
She died in 1983 while I was away at college.
To this day, I think about that old, cantankerous, shriveled old lady and have to fight not to cry.
You don't have to be anywhere near perfect to be loved and held in high esteem.
