PUTTING ON A HAT FOR GRANDMA LULA

by Robin Landry

My grandmother, affectionately known as “Nana” to us, lived next door when I was growing up. In my mind, she was larger than life. Whenever Nana went out, she dressed impeccably . She wore perfume and jewelry that appealed to the “girly-girl” side of me.  She even had one of those fox stoles that both fascinated and repulsed me at my same time.  My little sister and I would steal into her closet just to peek at that wonderfully awful article of clothing, complete with the fox’s head and paws still attached!

Nana was my true heroine. She represented everything that was classy and correct, a kind of “super grownup.” So it was with great surprise that I came to understand that Nana was once someone’s “little girl”, just like I was.

It happened in the summer of 1969, when I was six.  Nana’s mother, “Grandma Lula” , had come to visit, to celebrate her 80th birthday. Fiercely independent, this 5 foot 2 inch, 120 pound bundle of pure feistiness was extraordinary!  In later years, I came to appreciate the glimpse of “living history” she provided us, when she spoke of being raised by grandparents who were former slaves, and of her learning to read in a one room schoolhouse from a “McGuffey’s Reader.”  But at six, I had yet to grasp Grandma Lula’s charms. She had a deep voice and a no-nonsense attitude; truth be told, she scared me silly.

One Sunday morning during that summer visit, we were preparing to go to church. Back in those days, church was still a fairly “dress up” affair, although the standards for ladies were starting to relax. Gloves by this time were pretty much a relic of the past, but apparently the jury was still out on hats, at least as far as Nana and Grandma Lula were concerned.

We were all dressed and ready to leave, when Grandma Lula looked my then fifty-four year old Nana up and down, in much the same way that Mommy sometimes inspected my older sister’s outfits.  She said, in a deceptively innocent tone, “Sara, why don’t you go and put on a hat?”

"Oh, Mom, I don’t need a hat. It’s hot out,” Nana replied, with just the slightest hint of adolescent sulkiness in her voice. But Grandma Lula would not be deterred. She boldly marched her tiny little self into my Nana’s bedroom, where she began pulling hat boxes off the closet shelf in search of the perfect accessory.  My six-year-old sensibilities were in a complete state of shock. Grandma was touching things in Nana’s bedroom without permission! Nobody, and I mean nobody, was allowed to do that!  I couldn’t recall ever seeing Mommy or even “Pompoo” (our pet name for Nana’s husband, Mommy's stepfather) touch any of Nana’s things.

I’m sure I cringed, and perhaps even closed my eyes, in preparation for the firestorm that was certain to come. But to my  amazement, Nana didn’t utter a word -- even when Grandma Lula emerged from the closet with what had to be the ugliest, most God-awful hat I had ever seen, and plopped it firmly on Nana’s head. The hat was hideous.  It was some sort of shiny, satin material; a gold and turquoise turban-like monstrosity that I couldn’t imagine anyone, especially not my stylish Nana, having ever bought on purpose.

"Now you really look like somebody,” proclaimed Grandma Lula proudly. Although Nana never once gave voice to whatever it was she might have been thinking or feeling, her face and body language said it all. Like a mortified teenager, her expression was clearly of the, “I look like somebody alright; somebody that is a complete doofus! Thanks a lot, Mom,” variety.

In that moment I realized a mother’s love trumps all else.  As a result, mothers of all ages possess the ability to get away with behavior that their children would never dream of tolerating from anyone else.

With Grandma Lula, that point was driven poignantly home one final time, when Nana died of a stroke some five years following the great hat debacle. When our family arrived at the funeral home before the open casket visitation was to begin, the funeral director was working hard to make sure we were pleased with Nana’s appearance. Grandma Lula firmly pronounced that the curl in Nana’s hair was “too tight.” As the funeral director attempted to comb her hair into a more relaxed style, I remember Grandma taking the comb from his hand and arranging Nana’s hair herself. Although the gentleman seemed somewhat taken aback by her forthrightness, he quietly acquiesced. Even, or perhaps particularly, in the finality of death, a mother’s prerogative outweighs the rank and privileges of all.

Whether it is dressing us for our baby pictures, sprucing us up for the first day of school, fussing over us on our wedding day or, sadly, in those instances when our own mothers outlive us, making sure that we are presentable for our last public appearance, mothers are relentless in their quest to show their children in a positive light. Of the many hats that mothers wear, it seems that this is one that they are somewhat more reluctant to remove.

About Robin Landry