Grandma Loopy kicks the bucket...

Guadalupe Pantoja Barron, this is the name of a short cotton haired lady I call Grandma. She was born and raised in Mexico and married my Grandfather Cruz, no joke that was his name, in the good ole U.S. of A. After a few years of marriage and then having children in this fine and dandy country you’d think she would have taken the initiative to learn English? I’m not saying she doesn’t speak English; she just doesn’t speak it anywhere close to well. Most of my childhood memories consist of her doing that jive where she’d clap her hands together while tilting her head and then opening her arm with her palms out while using her wretched English to say “Aye Mijo…how are ju?” I would fall into her arms like I was pulled in with a tractor beam and just get the damn hug over with. My sisters and I would later call her Grandma Flav because she had a nice amount of gold either outlining her teeth or covering them entirely. Word on the street is gold toofasis was the way shit went down in Mexico? All I know is she was years ahead of the gold wearing rap fad of the 80’s. Another odd, yet cool, memory is how she could shoot some mean B-Ball. I don’t know why or how but she would school us when we played
H-O-R-S-E by making some unbelievable shots from the porch of her house? After she would swish her shots she would clap her hands together, tilt her head and then let out a mix of a cackle and a laugh.

As I got older I started to realize that Grandma wasn’t the sweet old lady Grandmothers were supposed to be. No, she was actually a bitter old lady who used pathetic drama to either get her way, or just flat out annoy you. One of my first examples of this was when I was a wee lad and saved my nickels and dimes (FOR TWO WHOLE WEEKS! Bonus points if you get that reference) and bought her a nice bunch of flowers for her birthday. I can remember sitting in the car caught up in daydreams of my presenting her with the flowers and securing my spot as her best grandchild. My sisters were in the car, but I think they only had cards or something droll like that. We pull into my grandparent’s driveway and I can’t wait to get inside to deliver my goods! Anxious to make my delivery, I lead everyone into the house. Most of times I went to visit the grandparents they would be sitting at the kitchen table across from each other, this was one of those times. My grandfather gives me a hug when I walk in and I give a meager hug back and head straight for Grandma Flav. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA!” I blurt out with glee. Then my TRUE grandmother let herself be known. “Uuugh, thank you Mijo. They…are nice” she replies as she takes them from my hand and sets them on the counter. She only looked at them for a second and set them aside? Sonofabitch! That’s it?! That’s what I saved my money for? To have her let out a breath like she ran a marathon and then tossing my flowers aside like they were junk mail?! SONOFABITCH! My dad just kind of put his hand on my shoulders as if to tell me “I know, just let it go.” I would have understood if she reacted like that because she was on her deathbed or something, but she wasn’t. The one thing I do know though is that I was never hording my cash to buy her a gift again! She had no idea how many boxes of lemon heads,
Chic-o sticks, Boston baked beans and Alexander the Grapes she had cost me…but I did.

From that day on I notice she never said a word without letting out that breath like it was going to be her last. “Uuuugh…Mijo, would you like some juice” “uuugh…do you want to watch TV?” “Uuugh…Mijo put the knife down.” Then I also started to notice she would just start talking to me in Spanish? I was just a kid and my parents never spoke any Spanish at my house unless we were going to Taco Bell. Even now when I talk to her she insists on saying only one thing in English, then it’s all Spanish after that! Oh, did I leave that part out? Yeah, my grandmother is still alive! She ain’t going nowhere! Fuck, her mother just died last year and she was 109 yrs old! She was uglier than a nightmare with the devil in it too, and ever since we were kids she looked as if she was carved out of driftwood and no taller than Yoda. She would only talk to me in Spanish too! These chicks were straight old school Mexican ladies right on down to the dramatic way they talked and moved their hands while speaking.

When my grandfather passed away she got even worse. Years later my father and his boyfriend Jim (YES JIM! I OUTTED YOU! HAHA) would move into her house and take care of her. This is when the fun would start. Over the last few years of them living there she had planted a seed of dislike within the two of them and we’ve watched it grow into a blossoming bushel of hate for her! Do I blame them? No. Now that I’m adult I’ve realized that hate was created for at least one person in our lives and that doesn’t exclude family.

There are many stories I could tell about this twisted old broad, but this one is the one that had the most impact on me.

One sunny morning my Grandmother’s house was abuzz with everyone starting their days and doing what it is people do in the morning. My sister had been staying at the house at the time so there was a full house consisting of Pops, Jim, Lisa and G-love. The old man and my sister were in different bathrooms getting ready while Jim was getting ready in one of the rooms. While my dad is in the bathroom he recalls Grandma knocking on the door. He tells her he’ll be out in a second and when he opens the door…no one is there? He blows it off and goes about his business. My sister was finishing up in the bathroom she was in and makes her way out. As my sister walks out of the bathroom and toward the kitchen she sees my Grandmother scurrying in from the garage door, which is attached to the kitchen, and when she spots my sister she let’s out a scary laugh and shoots straight for her room. What makes the laugh scarier is that in recent years my Grandmother had decided that looking like a shrunken mad scientist was where it was at! She was barely 5 ft tall, wore house gowns, ratty slippers, no make-up, glasses that resembled the ones Mrs. Claus would wear, and had hair as white as clouds and styled like Colonel Sanders.

My sister was a bit puzzled because she didn’t even know my Crazy G was even in the garage. My dad walks into the kitchen and my sister proceeds to tell him about the odd run in she had with Gram Crackers. “Huh? What was she doing in the garage?” to which my sister answers with a shrug. Baffled he opens the garage door and turns on the light. Without going further than the first step from the door my father is blocked by a wall of stench! He says it was like smelly tear gas and he almost gagged. He opens the main garage door to let in some fresh air while also letting out the rank smell overtaking the garage. After he opens the main garage door he tells my sister how bad it smelled in there and for her to go smell the aroma in the garage. This is the part that I don’t get…SHE GOES IN AND TAKES A WHIFF! Why? If my dad is obviously pale and scarred from his jaunt into the garage wouldn’t you just take his word for it? I’m sure no one makes that shit up so they can trick you into smelling strawberries or something! It’s like when your with someone who smells a fart, sniffs around round and exclaims “WHAT IS THAT SMELL? DO YOU SMELL THAT?” Then they take a couple more hearty whiffs and go “EEEW! WHAT IS THAT?!” Was it really necessary to take the second whiff to suck up the rest of the smell? No. No it isn't.

Determined to crack the case my father starts OPERATION PHANTOM ODOR! He goes back into the garage and the smell isn’t as bad anymore, but it still stinks. My grandmother’s garage is packed with crap! There is my uncles old truck; the bed filled with boxes, a vintage coke machine, tools, some furniture, etc. My dad starts looking around like a bloodhound and when he turns the corner of the coke machine he comes face to face with the enemy. The old man has a wicked set of tools because he is the next best thing to Bob Villa. Some of the tools he uses most he keeps in a big white bucket. Well, the tools were dumped out of the bucket but the bucket was still there. This was no longer a tool bucket.

With a look I can only imagine resembled a priest giving an exorcism, he stares at the bucket. The bucket is half covered with shit and when he leans forward he sees there is shit inside the bucket as well. There were no logs to be seen either, no; this was straight up ass mudslide material. Infuriated my dad swallows his disgust and starts the clean up process. Now he knew what my grandmother was doing in the garage and was beyond furious. As he gets the hose to spray the garage he notices a soaked slipper on the patio, my grandmothers slipper. Turns out grandma’s aim wasn’t so good and when she went to squat over the bucket she miscalculated the distance resulting in her shitting all over the side of the bucket AND her foot! But it gets better; spread out on the planter was some old lady chonies! Her underwear took a hit and were down for the count. He finishes cleaning up Poo Radley's mess and quickly goes into the house to confront his demon.

Going to her room he asks my grandmother “why did you shit in the garage.” Adding fuel to his fire, my grandmother just laughs and waves both hand at him like it was no big deal. You see this is what happened according to my grandmother’s confession. Since my sister was in one bathroom and my dad was in the other there were no bathrooms left. Oh yeah, and my grandmother had taken a grip of laxatives so they weren’t helping her out either. Knowing that she was about to blow like Old Faithful she decided to go into the garage and find a solution. Her solution? Why it was to dump a bucket of tools and aim her ass blaster toward the bucket of course. Who wouldn’t do that? It made perfect sense…TO A CRAZY OLD LADY FILLED WITH SHITTER PILLS! Knowing it was pointless to argue with her my dad stares her down, turns on his heels, and leaves her room like a beaten man.

I had been visiting the old man when he recited this horrid tale to me. My grandmother was in her room and wasn’t aware I was visiting. Normally I won’t disturb her because she acts like I came back from traveling the world and all she could think of was me while I was gone. Sure it sounds sweet, but it’s such a phony display of affection that you just want to hug her until you feel her spine snap in your arms. I listen to every word of my dad’s story with intense curiosity. Every word that fills my ears disgusts me more and more. “Wha…I mean…How…” I just didn’t know what to say. I finally settled on the scholarly response of “THAT IS SO FUCKING GROSS!” to express my true feeling. Within minutes of barking that statement out my grandmother emerges from her room and looks right at me. “Uuuugh…MIJO! Oh, how are ju?” and she is coming at me with open arms. Now I hated giving her hugs before but this was different. After talking to my dad I couldn’t get the story out of my head and looking at the cause of all this disgust I felt was coming at me for a big hug. I could feel my breakfast making it’s way up my throat and I swore I smelled shit the closer my grandmother got. When she finally grabs me I am clouded with visions of shit and the aroma of excrement as well. I shake her off like a cobweb and walk back to my chair. My dad doesn’t even look at her and stares straight ahead. She says her good byes and shuffles back to her room. “Aw man! Was it just me or did she smell like shit?! I think she did! Goddamn it even if she doesn’t, she will always smell like shit to me now! SHIT!”
“I didn’t smell her, I didn’t even want to look at her,” my dad says while making a face one would make…well, after cleaning up a bucket of shit!

To this day I try not to linger in the garage and if I do have to venture in there I try not to go around the coke machine or look at the ground near it. I also try to avoid my grandmother when I visit but I’m not always so lucky. No matter how much time goes by and how pristine my grandmother may appear, she will always smell like shit to me, and that’s pretty shitty.

DJB