Matchmaking Gone Wrong

Just as I refused to admit that I had invited the obnoxious neurosurgeon who stood over the dessert table as though the Derby pie was a patient whose opened skull required his unwavering attention, the person who invited the poofy-haired matchmaker also maintained total anonymity. Despite the buzz of everyone whispering guesses about who invited these two, it mattered little to me other than the amusement of watching the familiar eccentrics try to bust their competition.

Aunt Jackie’s Derby party tradition started as any other holiday; the family gathered at her house, at her insistence, because she was the best cook, she owned the most china, and she threw the biggest tantrum if anyone rejected her offer. Of her many idiosyncrasies, the three that no one dared forget were: she would not eat or drink from paper or plastic; she would not serve from paper, plastic, or tin; and she would not allow the word ‘shit’ to pass her ears without telling the speaker just how tacky she thought it was. Walking on eggshells and biting tongues aside, everyone considered her Derby parties an annual must.

Someone mentioned the Derby party at a family reunion one year and it grew from immediate to extended family. Not all of the over-one-hundred first cousins showed up, but the ones who did brought friends when they returned the net year. As we—the nieces and nephews—aged, we brought friends, dates, spouses, their families, and eventually, our children and their friends.

Aunt Jackie spent the year buying new china, looking in yard sales for official Derby glasses, growing mint for the juleps, perfecting recipes, and inviting everyone she met to the next year’s party. As you might have guessed by now, the woman who would not serve a country ham sandwich on a paper napkin or plate would also never settle for jackpot betting on the biggest horse race in the world. She booked the party at track odds, providing an even bigger attraction than free food on china.

A couple of people remember every Derby winner, how much they paid, the jockeys names, and whether or not the horse went on to win a triple crown. My mother could probably name each dish served and the year it first appeared on the menu. I would be surprised if there isn’t at least one person able to name my date each year, how many drinks certain people downed, and every incident of someone flirting with a person other than the one with whom they came.

I remember at least thirty of Aunt Jackie’s Derby parties. I can list the traditional menu items, would fare well if presented with a list of names and asked to determine whether they belonged to horses, jockeys, or guests, and might be able to name my dates. With total certainty, I can document the exact amount the bookie made off me, all years combined. Zero. And, I can say that, without a doubt, the poofy-haired matchmaker is the one guest I will never forget (thank you, whoever invited her).

Before the romantics get too excited, poofy-hair did not introduce me to a man that I married the next week and lived happily ever after with, but not because she didn’t try. She gave her job as much attention and effort as the bartender who served hundreds of mint juleps that day. Within seconds of my arrival, she had scrutinized my style, posture, reception, and the bare ring finger on my left hand and decided I deserved the “the most handsome, intelligent, polite” young man at the party. I didn’t ask what made her think he wouldn’t notice me without her assistance, nor did I pull away when she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the last spot where she had seen him.

He wasn’t where she wanted him to be but that did not discourage her. Still holding my arm, she led me through several rooms, enhancing her description of him and growing more excited as we walked. I almost felt guilty when she finally found him, and I had to tell her that I had already married him once.

Obviously an optimist, this woman overcame that little disappointment quickly and moved on to her second choice, who was my uncle. We parted ways after she introduced me to my brother, but she caught up to me again later in the day with a death-grip on the wrist of my best friend who had just arrived. I suggested that, since I knew or was related to most everyone at the party, she might consider this a hopeless cause.

I am especially grateful that she had the good sense not to take me anywhere near the dessert table and the obnoxious neurosurgeon. The list of words I would have shouted would surely have included the one that our hostess least wanted to hear.

Children and Politics

Each of my grandchildren has developed a special 'gramma thing' - something they think they alone share with me. Politics is the link with my grandson, who will turn nine in July. We delivered him to his first protest in a stroller (but did let him out to stand on the base of a statue with his little "Let Every Vote Count" poster for the TV cameras) and he has been my partner-in-protest and campaign buddy since.

By the time the 2004 campaign rolled around, he thought he knew just about everything, and talked some big issues when we were out. It got a bit complicated when he had memorized Kucinich's entire platform, and then had to switch to Kerry even though his heart was with Edwards (not a first, second, or third choice for any of us, and we hadn't taken him to see Edwards - so he did some independent thinking based only on what he had seen on C-span.)

While standing on a busy street corner during rush hour one day, he dropped his Kerry sign to his side and asked, "Gramma, why do you hate George Bush so much?" I think at that point he was tired and wanted to make sure this work really necessary.

I sighed, hating Bush even more because he had given me reason to hate him enough that it was obvious to my grandchild that I hated someone. Too much hate for me. I did something that made me sick at my stomach.

"I don't hate him, I just hate what he has done to my country and my world," I lied.

"What do you hate most?" He asked.

"I hate the way he spends our money. I hate that he spends it on war instead of education and health care." That sounded age appropriate.

Noah thought for a minute before he asked the next question. "If John Kerry wins, will he spend more on school?"

I nodded. Noah found renewed strength, jumped to the curb, waved his sign, and shouted, "Vote for Kerry.” A lady came up and asked why he supported Kerry. Noah's response was, "Because if he wins we might get a new playground at school."

We had a small disagreement last year when he wanted to play with the toy soldiers I had on my window ledges (holding 'Bring Me Home' signs) and I told him they were not toys and no, he could not play with them.

Yesterday, he told me his friends finally stopped liking Bush when they found out he lied about the war. I was excited to hear that eight-year-olds are talking about politics, but the next line let me know that some were still spreading false information. "But, we had to start that war because they had those weapons. Right, Gramma?"

And the hatred grew. I knew this child wanted me to assure him that we are the good guys, and I couldn't do that. I asked him if it would be 'right' for me to knock him off the couch because I thought maybe he wanted to hurt me some day. He laughed - not the response I wanted.

Fortunately, in an earlier conversation, Noah told me Shaq is the biggest man on earth. I had something to use. "Okay," I said. "What if Shaq thinks Tatum (Noah's four-year-old sister) might want to pick up a stick the next time she goes outside, and that she might hit him with that stick someday. Is it okay for him to knock her down now to make sure she can never get that stick?”

He shook his head.

"Shaq is about the size of the U.S., and Tatum is the size of Iraq," I reminded him. "We thought Iraq wanted to have big weapons like the ones we have.”

“They do have weapons,” he said. “They are shooting back at us.”

“The weapons they had when we invaded them were like sticks."

"Well, I would protect my baby sister," he decided.

"No," I said. "You can't, because you are Syria."

"Who is Syria?"

"A country that is just a little bit stronger than Iraq," I told him. "Iraq's big brother."

"Then Dad would protect Tate."

"Your dad is Iran, and Shaq won't allow him to have anything bigger than a stick. Shaq has a baseball bat."

He grinned. "You got me, Gramma."

I haven't heard from his parents yet. I hoped he would retell this conversation to them before talking to his friends.