The Lifewriter's Digest Article -- The Last Word

The Last Word by Robin Waldron

Affiliate Teacher Robin Waldron writes about what happened when a stubborn grandmother and an equally stubborn granddaughter collided. Robin is well on her way to becoming a Certified SLN affiliate teacher. She lives in Franklin, Indiana.

The Saturday morning sun came up too early that day in 1957, at the end of the first week back to school, and I was mentally spent from it all. I knew right away the sixth grade wasn't going to be an easy ride.

I had forgotten to turn off the alarm the night before, and it rudely awakened me. My eyelids cracked open to no more than slits, allowing in the bare minimum of daylight. Then it dawned on me--it was Saturday, and I didn't have to go to school.

I quickly snuggled deep into the comfort of my bed and closed my eyes to go back to sleep, but it didn't work. I no sooner closed my eyes than I heard the door at the bottom of the stairs open.

"Robin, are you going to sleep all day?" Grandma called up to me. "Better get up. You know you have to do all your chores on Saturday, now that school has started. Can't drag them out all week. Come on--are you awake? Robin?"

Grandma's thick German accent and sing-song rhythm invaded the silence of my inner sanctum with the insistence of an unwelcome guest.

"Okay, Grandma. I'll be down in a few minutes."

"See that you are, young lady. Don't be makin' me come up there!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mumbled under my breath.

Now I was fully awake but still reluctant to move too fast. As I lay in my bed thinking, I had to remind myself how lucky I was to have Grandma and Grandpa. After all, I could have ended up in foster care like my brother and sister.

My folks divorced when I was 14 months old and my father took the three of us home to his parents. When I was seven, we all moved into the house on Tekoppel Avenue. My brother and sister lived with us for a short while, then the decision was made that Dad and me would continue to live with my grandparents, and my brother and sister would be placed in foster care together. The new house was much nicer, but not quite as large as the old one. This move meant that I gained my own bedroom, a real luxury for a 12-year-old. Not many of my friends enjoyed such a comfort, but the room didn't make up for my loss.

Rolling over, I put my bare feet on the cool linoleum, telling myself that even though I had to get up, life was good. There were two unusual pets in the backyard, and since it was Saturday, I would be able to spend some time with them later.

The aroma of bacon frying and coffee brewing in the kitchen wound its way up the stairs to my room, adding to my enthusiasm for the day ahead. Anticipating the bacon and eggs I would have for breakfast, I managed to get dressed and downstairs before Grandma could get back to the door with her resounding last-chance orders. But when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I found the tone of the day set with a warning from Grandma's steel gray eyes and stern temperament.

"You need to burn the trash today," she calmly said. "Don't forget. It's running over in the kitchen, and you know we can't burn after 4 o'clock."

Something in her demeanor presented a challenge to me. As I stared back at her, I felt an overwhelming sense of defiance. I'll empty the trash when I get good and ready, I thought to myself, and not a minute sooner.

Outside, the sky was heavy and gray, a typical gloomy Indiana fall day. I told myself that maybe it would rain all day, and I wouldn't have to do my chores after all. It was my responsibility to burn the trash, but I just didn't feel like doing that right away, so I chose to ignore Grandma's request--a game I was surely destined to lose.

The day wore on. As lunch approached, Grandma reminded me a second time to burn the trash. "It's goin' to be 4 o'clock before ya know it, girl, and ya still won't have da trash burned. If I have to burn da trash, you will go to bed right after supper, and for sure, ya won't be a watchin' Boston Blackie on da TV tonight."

The battle of the wills was now in full hurricane force. I knew I was getting on her nerves, because her German accent always grew thicker as she became more agitated. But she always knew how to get to me. Saturday night was the only time I was allowed to stay up until 10 o'clock, and Boston Blackie was my favorite detective story.

Well, with that news, I knew I would have to burn the trash, but I vowed to myself it wouldn't happen until 3:30. That way, I would have the last word.

But Grandma was not known for her patience. When she asked me to do something, she didn't intend to have to ask twice. Clearly, I had already crossed that line.

Later in life, I figured out that some of her impatience was caused by her poor health and had nothing to do with me.

I still remember the day she came home from one of her frequent doctor's visits and said to Grandpa, "Well, Everett, the doctor says I have stomach ulcers and the only way to heal them is to drink goat's milk."

Upon hearing this news, Grandpa had begun checking around Evansville to try to find where he could buy goat's milk, but it just wasn't to be found. The nearest goat farm was 40 miles away in McCutchenville. Grandpa reasoned it just wouldn't be practical to travel that far regularly for the milk. One day, he journeyed to the goat farm. Upon his return, he announced that he had bought two goats and would pick them up in two weeks. In the meantime, he had to decide where he would keep them.

Well, as it turned out, Grandpa researched his property survey information and found what he thought he remembered. Part of the property was in the city and part was in the county. The house and a small portion of the backyard were bound by city limits and rules, while a parcel in the far back lot was bound by county limits and county rules.

Further research at the courthouse revealed that the city would not allow goats inside the city limits, because they weren't considered domestic pets. However, at the county offices Grandpa found no such ruling. In fact, he was told that as long as the neighbors didn't complain, there was no reason he couldn't have goats on his county parcel.

Being a law-abiding citizen and, of course, not wanting to pay hefty fines for harboring illegal animals within the city limits, Grandpa measured off exactly where the city-county line was located on his property, according to his property survey information. There he stretched a fence that essentially divided the property into two sections, each governed by a different set of rules. Two weeks later, as Grandpa promised, we had two nanny goats living in the far back lot. We named them Nanny and Judy.

Typically, only billy goats have horns, but I soon learned that Nanny was not a typical goat. Yep, her pointed horns curved back over the top of her head at about a 30-degree angle. At will and with amazing accuracy, she could pick just about anything off the ground and send it sailing into the air. I don't remember seeing her miss a target.

Grandpa played rough with the goats, and they loved him. I watched how he handled them and learned to play with them, too, as well as to respect them. Soon, with Grandpa's guidance, I was able to control them as skillfully as he could. Grandma, on the other hand, didn't like the goats and had no control over them. In fact, truth be known, she was a little afraid of Nanny.

At 3 o'clock that afternoon, without issuing any further orders, Grandma moved to the back door, where her old brown sweater hung on the wall coat rack. Silently removing the sweater from its place, she unceremoniously put it on, picked up the wastebasket in the kitchen, and marched her five-foot, two-inch square-framed body, clad in its brightly colored paisley print house dress and brown sweater, out the door and down the sidewalk toward the goat yard where the burning barrel was located.

Instantly, I knew I had lost this battle of the wills. Guilt swept through me and my mind raced as I considered all the potential outcomes of this scene. I was right on Grandma's heels, fearing the inevitable from Nanny if she entered the goat yard.

"Grandma," I begged. "Don't go in there. I'll burn the trash. I was getting to it, you know." "No, I'm goin' ta burn da trash, and you're goin' ta stay out of da goat yard!" "But Grandma! You know how Nanny is. She's going to think you're coming into the yard to play. Don't go, Grandma. Let me go."

Knowing there was no reasoning with her now, I stood on the city side of the fence, as I was told to do, watching the most incredible scene unfold right before my eyes.

Grandma was about to dump the wastebasket of trash into the burner when a gust of wind rose, carrying the trash across the goat yard. In the meantime, Nanny, as I suspected, seeing all the action at the burning barrel thought that Grandma had come into the yard to play. Grandma bent over to catch a piece of trash, and I caught sight of Nanny preparing to charge her target.

"Nanny! No, Nanny!" I yelled. I climbed the fence and landed in the goat yard. Nanny, with her head down and charging, reached Grandma with lightning speed. She hooked her horns under the hem of Grandma's dress and was about to raise her off the ground when I reached them. I wrestled Nanny to the ground and somehow freed Grandma's dress from Nanny's horns.

Grandma righted herself, and as if nothing had happened, glared at me. "I thought I told you ta stay out of da goat yard!" she said. "But since you're here, pick up da trash and burn it." She turned and marched out of the goat yard and up the sidewalk to the house, her silver gray hair waffling in the wind. She never looked back.

Nanny and I sat on the ground staring at each other as if asking, "What just happened here?" I let go of Nanny, and stood to begin picking up the trash that was now strewn all over the goat yard. Shaking my head, I knew in my heart that Grandma had just had the last word.

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Epilogue: No, I did not get to see Boston Blackie that night. Yes, we still laugh about Nanny's antics today. Grandpa sold Nanny shortly after this incident, and I secretly suspect that Grandma tried to throw me in on the bargain, but there were no takers for the packaged deal. I don't remember Grandma ever going into the goat yard again.