The third side of the family

The third side of the family.

Not everyone was important or lucky enough to have three sets of grandparents. But we were! Grandma and Grandpa Wilcox also lived closer to us since Des Moines was only an hour drive from the Farm. To say that the Wilcoxes were decent people would be an understatement. They were definitely more than that. They were very good people and we knew it. 

It could have been that this good, Methodist, white people family was not especially diverse before my dad, and subsequently, we, his children, came into it. I like to think that we, enriching the Wilcox family, was a good thing, though maybe sometimes it could have felt like we were the puzzle piece that just didn't quite fit right. But we were staying... at least as well as Baptists could. 

From the other side of town for sure. Not the university side. No. The industrial side, the business side of town. The other side of the political tracks. The other side of the skin's color; my brother, Joe's statement comes to mind post burn accident, "did you know that underneath your skin, you are white?" He found that out the hard way. I could spend some time digging around trying to figure out what we were, but I did not have any luck finding that out usually. 

I remember my grandfather's tears when one of my siblings asked him what it was like when my father came to live in the Wilcox family. A black boy thrown into the middle of five white boys. He tried to tell us about the first year, that it was hard. I do not remember much of anything he said, but I remember the tears. And I know that he saved my father in many ways. He was a very gentle person. Kind. I never remember him raising his voice, though I assume with six little boys you would have to... especially if you were a reverend. I didn't rightly know what a reverend was if he was not a pastor. Except that a reverend wore some kind of costume, so I assumed that he was even more serious than the pastor about the pastoring... and maybe he was. My dad was a part of the boy choir I heard. 

I remember my grandmother leading the bell choir. Teaching us how to hold the bell and ring it properly. I remember her rising so early to spend time in the kitchen. She was often in an apron, and everything she did, it seemed, had been started hours or even the day before. "Oh, I made the pumpkin pie already yesterday... and the mashed potatoes too, and the dough has been rising for an hour already." I was amazed at her dedication in the kitchen. Her ability to plan ahead... her abilities at setting a table, which she made sure to teach us; which fork was the salad fork, on which side of the plate the spoon belonged. 

The Thanksgiving table was twice as long as any other table and still too short for all of us. Two additional card tables had to be set up in the living room for the children. There were special linens for the holidays. Special Christmas plates and silver polished the day before. Special glasses out of real crystal that sang when my brothers ran their wet fingers around the rims. Things we were not allowed to break!  

My favorite thing was singing all together when grandma played the organ in the living room. She pumped it with her feet so that the air would go through the pipes, and found all the Christmas hymns in her old hymnals. Our uncles had beautiful voices and I guess they must have served in the choir too because they were all incredibly skilled in harmonies as well. So were our cousins... They all sounded like professional singers to me. I wondered at their talents in everything! 

Uncle Paul and Uncle Joel, I knew the best. Probably because they were the closest in age to my papa. I usually could not tell them apart and spent years trying and failing to pick a favorite. They played the guitar and harmonica in the afternoon and sang songs by the artists that were before my time, the Beatles and such. The uncles and grandpa would play complicated games at the table after Thanksgiving dinner while the others played pool in the basement or ran outside for a game of football. 

The old Victorian house was picture perfect, with ceilings high enough for Angels. There was a blue room, a red room, a toy room, a guest room and a TV room; which is where us little kids would most likely be watching some cartoons or playing with the piano. You could not say playing the piano, because that is what Grandma and cousin Emily could do. My siblings and I just played with the piano. Then there was this bathroom with two doors. The door that didn't lead into the TV room led into the pantry! Where the pumpkin pie was waiting for later. Cousin Sarah said not to tell that grandma had forgotten to add the sugar to the pie... she just put some on top that year when grandma wasn't looking. 

Aunt Kathy and Aunt Gayle made side dishes and didn't let grandma do everything alone in the kitchen during Thanksgiving. Usually a layered jello dish, or bean dip to go with the Turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and gravy. Not to mention ham, cranberry jelly, stuffing, wassail, salad, dinner rolls or pecan pie. I don't know what was better, eating it the first time, or eating it six hours later when we got hungry again! 

Grandma knew how to throw a feast! She even did it professionally at times. When I was old enough to help, I went down to Des Moines and apprenticed, so to speak. I loved polishing silverware and learning how to fold napkins. I wondered how she could have so many foods hot all at the same time! How she could arrange them into complex courses and layer all the elements that went into setting the table properly. Seemed she could have hosted royalty to me, and maybe she did. Maybe she did.

In my imagination I, the little brown girl from the farm, was Cinderella. I slept across from the huge red room in the little room with the little wardrobe instead of in one of the huge colorful rooms reserved for royalty. I used the separate servant's staircase in the back of the old house because it was closer to the kitchen and did not feel grand like the carpeted one in front with the fine banister. The front staircase required more of a lady, the smoothing of her hair again at the top, properly ironed skirts, floating down gracefully, and the occasional pose for her imaginary admirers in the middle. The back staircase was bare and walled-in until the bottom, with a small door at the top. There were no portraits hung along the way. No one watching. Rushing down them in work clothes was perfectly acceptable. 

I stayed with my grandparents and helped when they did the Des Moines Tour of Homes. Everything was arranged perfectly in their historic Victorian house. I welcomed the guests and handed them a flyer that explained that it had been built by the first mayor of Des Moines. Grandma kept fresh cinnamon rolls coming like magic in the kitchen with coffee flavored icing. I exchanged the people's money... doing it wrong sometimes because I was not very good at math. Having the cinnamon rolls ready one batch at a time was complicated since they took hours to make, but she could do things like that. Cinderellas should not be amazed. 

I was amazed just the same. But then I saw how she came down the backstairs in her pyjamas in the night to start the dough. I saw her put the apron over them and work without her shoes on. I learned saw how she went up to change and fix her hair an hour or so before the guests arrived. 

I was out of my element in the big city. I took the dog for a walk a couple of times. I was just around the corner of the next house when a car driving by slowed and stopped across the sidewalk in the Alley. A black guy was talking out the window at me. Complimenting me on how nice I looked in my dress. He said not to be afraid to come close to the car and asked how old I was. I took one tiny step to appease him and then refused to budge, calculating. I told him the truth. He sped off, "Only 14!" He yelled, "she's only 14! I thought she was 21 or something." It frightened me. I went straight up the alley and in the back door of the house I had just left by the front. I didn't tell my grandparents, but that was the end of walking their dog for me! 

We were very fortunate to be able to tour some of the other homes in Des Moines as well. They were beautifully designed in many colors and styles. It was truly thrilling. I was so proud of my grandparents after that. We toured the house next door. I didn't know what a gay person was and embarrassed myself rather nicely. They were very nice. I went over to admire their renovations with the other people on the tour. We got to the master bed and bathroom on the second floor, and I asked which one of them the room belonged to. "We both sleep in this room," I was aghast. "Such a huge house for only two people, and you share" a room voluntarily! I might have said something about my six siblings and if I only had the chance at having my own room... He explained that they were neither siblings nor friends, and I understood that they were a couple after that. I held my tongue thereafter and was grateful that my darker skin hid my blush.

What impresses me the most about the Wilcox family, in retrospect, is how little conflict there was in their home on Thanksgiving. I know that everyone was not everyone else's favorite. However, there wasn't any bickering or drama on the days our families were together. Everyone just seemed content wandering from room to room looking for the next activity to do or the next person to spend time with... And there was always plenty of both, which is what I loved best. Without Grandma and Grandpa here, I fear the time in which there was so much contentment and bounty is past. In hindsight, I know that it was the hours of work that grandma spend days before we came and days after, preparing every detail that made the time so incredibly harmonious and warm. It was never just because we were all such nice people. She planned and worked to give us that holiday. She was the one awake earlier and still awake later, slaving away to get everything just right. Her hospitality was unforgettable every time that she chose to host. We have all become rich because of it.

I hope that as we remember the past and think on the future with all of our differences, the hidden preparations that our grandparents made are not lost on us. In our single staircase homes with single staircase lifestyles, I hope that we still give ourselves the opportunities to pass people who are different than we are. I hope that we still foster relationships that are not immediately easy, and that we show the kind of hospitality that starts preparing the celebrations days ahead in the dark in our pyjamas. I pray that we are blessed with longer tables and more beside. That our grandchildren will have rooms to wander through and favorites to pick and repick; even if those rooms do not have garlands, sconces, swags, rosets and rooms named after colors.