My paternal grandmother was a hell of a woman. Fierce, uncompromising, intelligent, and had a spirited nature unparalleled by any other I have seen since. But flawed in many respects as everyone is. I learned so much from her, both good and bad. As an adult I take stock in myself and recognise that what I learned from my parents and grandparents that I don’t like now, I need to reshape. It may not have been my fault for learning it back then as who we are is defined by our family, but who we choose to continue to be is now defined by if we allow those lessons to dictate our actions.

Gloria was born in 1923 in Wayne, Michigan. Raised Episcopalian, she held no truck with nuns or the whole “afraid of brothers, monsignors, priests, etc.” When Dad was sent home from Catholic school with his hand all bloody she had zero problem turning right around and going back to the school to find out the nun smacked him for writing left-handed. Catholics thought that the devil would enter you somehow if you wrote lefty… Grandma? No. She thought that was the most ridiculous thing ever. She had the nun brought in before the monsignor (a.k.a. Principal at the school) and told the monsignor to have the nun have her put her hand on the desk. The nun objected, saying that my dad knew he shouldn’t write with his left hand. Grandma just reiterated, “hand on desk.” The monsignor was just like “uh… what do want from me? You cut her kid?” Give or take the actual verbiage. In any event, Grandma smacked the nun across *her* knuckles. Then said, “if you *ever* hit my kid again, you will regret it immensely.”

My grandmother hit a nun with a ruler.

She loved parties, Christmas especially, but any reason to throw a party with tons of food was all right by her. She would throw a smashing party around her birthday and all were invited to come swim in the pool and someone would grill steaks.

She was what was a typical visual aid for EXTROVERT. Capital Letters, Neon Sign, Flashing Lights. Her business associates called her Glittering Gleaming Gloria. Shiny jewelry head to toe. BIG jewelry. 80’s poofed up hair that was ‘set’ once a week, and you damn well best not mess it up. If you jumped in the pool too close to her and got her hair wet while she did her breaststroke laps you would be banished. She loved you, but she had to keep her persona, you know.

And her voice… oh my cat. Whisky voice. She smoked probably a pack a day over decades to perfect that smooth gravel in a woodchipper vocal montage she had. Between that and the cultured mix of 50/50 Canadian Mist/Sprite (or 7Up) she would be drinking from about 10 AM until dinner (refills provided by any grandchild tall enough to successfully pour the Canadian Mist!) had her a very unique set of vocal chords. But her laugh was infectious.

She never let anyone tell her what she couldn’t do. When she married my grandfather, he soon was sent to various places during WWII. As you may know, during WWII, since the boys were away, the women were expected to fill in their jobs. Factories don’t run themselves, businesses don’t run themselves. Well, my grandfather’s father took on my grandmother and taught her the family business while grandpa was away. She was actually pretty smart, had a keen eye for numbers, understood the language of the trucking industry and the unions. She was working within the framework of what FDR put in place back in the New Deal days. AFL-CIO. This is still (as of now…) still in existence. WWII ended, and my grandfather came back, but he was okay with sharing the workload.

1948 and 1949 saw my dad and my uncle come into the world. And soon after the army sent my grandfather overseas again. The Korean Conflict had begun. I am not sure exact dates, but I know my dad was a toddler and lived in Japan for a bit while his dad was stationed there. Likely leftovers from WWII Peace Accords and such. I guess since there wasn’t actual fighting anymore, they felt it was okay to ship entire families over there? Anyway, when Grandma came back, again, she fell into working for her father-in-law…again.

But grandpa had more issues. He had seen action and came back injured. Purple Heart kind of action. Shrapnel in back, *seen things* kind of action. So he did what many wartime veterans do. Chased it down a bottle. Only Grandma wouldn’t allow it. She was what is called a ‘functional alcoholic.’ Grandpa was more the ‘abusive alcoholic’ kind. Really, that circles back to how he was raised. His own dad thought the only way to raise a kid was to smack them into shape. There’s a shillelagh hanging in our kitchen. It is a horrible piece of paternal history – how my great-grandfather disciplined his kids. But Grandma loved her kids too much. She did something NO ONE in the 50’s did, and certainly not a woman. She divorced him. Told him to basically straighten himself out. After all, she had a job – a decent paying one, I’d bet. I found a marriage certificate dated 1957, so apparently he figured it out. (***** Please see bottom for update ******)

No. She didn’t dry the house. She enjoyed her alcohol. She made it clear that his alcoholism was his issue, and it was something that he was going to deal with. Furthermore, my memories of the kitchen in my grandparents house had the Canadian Mist on the kitchen counter, next to the sink. (They had a galley kitchen with one open side that led to the family room/breakfast eating area.) Her alcohol of choice was not in a cabinet or away at all. More of a “I have my shit under control” design, and perhaps it was a constant test that helped him *keep* himself in line. Or maybe that alcohol was not what he had liked back in the day. Some alcoholics will have specific drinks they prefer, and if they are wealthy enough (which my family was) you could offer them something they don’t like all day long and they wouldn’t bother. I’m not a drinker, but if I do bother to have a *drink* (a.k.a. more than cider) it would be scotch. If you offered me a beer, I would absolutely rather have water, iced tea, lemonade… anything. I really *hate* the taste of beer. So maybe it was that.

She also didn’t exactly follow laws… She was often what we called “buzzed” from about noon on. Absolutely cognizant of everything, still articulate, able to work, negotiate trucking contracts, do full calculations in her head (she was the secretary-treasurer of the company at one point as she worked along with my great-grandfather, grandfather, and father), but she was just happy. I do believe it numbed pain for her. She was a Dragon Lady for more than one reason. She broke her back twice in her later years when she fell on our dock. (Two seperate times.) She had to wear a hard plastic brace to keep her spine in place. I remember her breathing in and pulling the straps into place. The pain was excruciating. She eventually was in a wheelchair. We went to Schuss Mountain at Shanty Creek for a show, and they started with the National Anthem. She *STOOD UP* even though she was in a wheelchair, with a back brace. Hands on table, shaking as she stood, with every bit of energy she could muster. Dad kept saying “Mom, you can sit, you can sit, it’s okay. You’re in a wheelchair.” Her response is something I will always remember. “You *always* stand for the Anthem.” As the wife of a previously enlisted man, she felt strongly.

One story my father told me after my grandparents had both passed had to do with her driving. As I mentioned, she would often be buzzed, but we lived in a rural area. Two lane hilly roads with blind oncoming traffic, and here’s Glittery Gleaming Gloria (usually a bit less glittery when she wasn’t going to a wedding or something, but still had at least some paste jewelry mixed in with the real) driving her absolute TANK of a station wagon down the center of the street. For those my age, I am talking the 70’s station wagons with those rear-facing dual seats in the trunk that were 100% metal and could seriously Delete A Tree if you went above 30.

She hit a car coming the other way. You know, one who was in her lane, minding her business, driving like a totally normal human? Yeah. Grandma creamed her because she was in the center of the street and couldn’t see due to the hills. This poor girl was pregnant, panicking, worried her husband was going to KILL her. What about Grandma’s car?? My grandma was just like “Oh, sit down here in my car, honey. Are you okay? Cars can be replaced. Cars are just things. That’s why there’s insurance. Don’t get worried. Not good for the baby. We’ll get it all sorted and taken care of.” This girl’s car was a tiny car and probably crushed like a paper cup. Grandma made it clear that if her husband gave her *ANY* trouble, she was to call her. And she stayed with her until people came to check her and the baby out. If I know my grandma, she likely had her insurance cut the check for a brand new car by the end of the day. She knew she was at fault, she definitely didn’t want to fight it (especially since she had been nipping the drink), and she felt bad about the girl and her little one. In addition, if she had any inclination that that girl might be having trouble with domestic violence (which might have been, but what could you do back then if you were not in a position to do anything?) she knew she could at least alleviate it slightly by zeroing out any cost associated with her hitting the car.

Grandma was often told what she should do. Hilariously, I think I get my attitude from her, quite a bit. Especially medically. She had severe asthma. Nowadays, having a nebulizer at home is not uncommon. It’s not super common, as insurance balks at buying you one unless your doctor *INSISTS* you need one because you require a treatment quite a few times throughout the year. Which in the US means “Hm… I can’t breathe, so I need to go to the clinic/ER for a neb treatment” which the insurance needs to pay for (or you do if it’s early in the year and it’s that gap part before insurance kicks in) and if you do that enough times per year, insurance will decide it’s in their best interest financially to just fucking let you HAVE a nebulizer at home and the doctor can prescribe the tiny tubes of medicine to put inside it. I mean, it’s not rocket science. You squeeze liquid into a small chamber and turn on the power. Breathe in the vapor. Wheeee. It makes you jittery, but your lungs appreciate it. And when you are sick (as opposed to just asthmatic) they give you a kind that is albuterol + medicine for the bronchitis you have (or pneumonia, or whatever). You know, so you can stop hacking away. I have prescriptions for both sitting in my bathroom for when I get sick. I know when I need each, and it saves us all. Back in the 80’s no one had home nebulizers. They weren’t small 1 foot square cubes. They came in metal suitcases like old typewriters did. It was a production. If you had one, your lungs were… well, they weren’t exactly awesome. Grandma had one. It sat on its own vanity because she used it daily. She had what we now call COPD. They called it just plain ol’ emphyzema then.

Back when she was a girl, she loved horses. She did her whole life. She rode horses, did equestrian, taught 4H, did the whole thing. She was allergic to hay. A LOT. “Gloria, you shouldn’t do horse riding. The hay is affecting your breathing. Your asthma…”

“I like horses. Asthma will not kill me. I will deal with it.” So she got her Ventolin delivered in 6-packs. She wheezed. She squeezed the inhalers, wheezed some more, carried on. And sucked on her Virginia Slim cigarettes. (Yeah, that also helps.) Absolutely no one could tell her what to do. And I think after awhile they just stopped trying. Even the doctors were like, “This is Gloria. Just… if she isn’t straight up exploding of something, leave it.”

She was the first to introduce me to the concept that diseases and disorders are not what makes you. You just adapt around it, but you don’t need to deny yourself anything. She made sure I was treated the same as my cousins. When I had a seizure, she made sure I was safe, and that I felt okay, and let me recover. Her sister had epilepsy. More than once I woke up on her couch having been carried from outside (playing with my cousin) and heard her quietly speaking to others. Someone would wander in and see I was awake, and then they would let me sleep again. But never did they say that I had to do something different because I was epileptic and the other cousins had no disorders. They had to take all the same safety precautions I had to take when we did things like ride ATVs. She wasn’t stupid. My brain may have been sensitive from epilepsy, but *ANYONE* could get smashed by an ATV. Anyone swimming in the pool had to have an adult (we were still kids when she was alive). There were only a handful of people allowed to swim alone, and they were all adults. And even then, only a handful of trusted, vetted adults that she knew well. I could count them on one hand outside of herself, Grandpa, my dad, and my cousin’s parents. Actually, outside of them, I think that brings it down to maybe one. It was a safety factor. We knew how to swim. We knew the rules of no running around the pool. But she also knew that anything could happen. An adult could just as easily take on water and choke – and a kid could run for help, too. The ones that were known to swim alone usually did their laps and sat by the pool for some sun. Grandpa did his laps because he had to. He had shrapnel in his back. He literally needed to move his back daily so it didn’t lock up. He also played golf for the same reason. Grandma did her laps to help with her breathing. She always did breaststroke. Then she got out and chatted, or sunbaked. When the grandkids were tiny she enjoyed bouncing them around in the water. So many photos of her enjoying that.

When people started the whole “She can’t do that, she’s epileptic” thing she was one of the first to knock that out of the air. One of my grandmother’s favorite expressions was one that could be taken multiple ways.

“Do anything you’re big enough to do.”

A challenge? A suggestion? I have used it as a way to live my life. My dad used to use it as a challenge to me, and I kinda thought it was a pitiful challenge. Of course I’ll live my life that way. He used it as a “You’ll never do this” type of thing. But I am not a shrinking violet, because she wasn’t. She introduced me to sitting in front of the television watching People’s Court (Judge Wapner) and challenging me to guess at the commercial how it was going to turn out, and why. And when I was wrong, she didn’t let me get upset, she explained why certain cases were ruled certain ways, even if they seemed unfair. Life wasn’t fair, and that is shitty, she agreed.

She wasn’t all awesome, though. She was racist. She used every perjoritive that had ever been invented. And it didn’t matter if little kids were around. We learned them. So, we learned (later) to unlearn them. Because children don’t know better, we repeat what we hear. So many words I know I should NOT know. Or I should not have known at five years old.

She read the Mandingo series. For those that don’t know, it’s a series based on slaves, slave breeding, and white women sleeping with their black slaves in the Antebellum South. Just… no.

But no one is perfect, and if we dig, dig, dig into all our relatives, we may find some of the things we see are not necessarily butterflies and rainbows. That’s what makes us imperfectly perfect. And we learn from our ancestors. I am not a racist, but I did take my grandmother’s Dragon Lady attitude and inability to listen to people telling me “what I should do” instead. Pick and choose, I guess.

I’m always going to be that blunt, sarcastic, unavoidably unintentionally amusing girl. Never going to be pinned down with a “I like to do X” thing because my hobbies change constantly, incessantly, like a carnival ride. But I am loyal. That I got from my grandmother. If she liked you, she would ALWAYS like you. And if you screwed her over, she remembered. If you screwed over someone she loved, she remembered that, too. She may need to still work with you, but you wouldn’t necessarily get preferential treatment now, because she wouldn’t trust you.

Live and learn.

And Remember Your Histories.

UPDATE: It has come to my attention that my grandmother was widowed TWICE during WWII, before Grandpa Bridge. What I thought was her divorcing him and remarrying him, may actually have been a 10 year remarriage ceremony. I never did find divorce papers, mind you. Only the secondary marriage certificate that was dated well after both kids were born – 1957. Here is a new logical theory I have come up with, considering the new background information newly provided to me.

Gloria was married to her first husband in 1943, and was widowed a mere two months later as he was listed as Lost At Sea. His name was Edward C. Stanton. They married on Valentine’s Day 1943 and then was listed as lost at sea on 10 April 1943. Officially interred in Honolulu after the war in 1945. He has a monument at the Honolulu Memorial “Punchbowl” Museum in the Courts of the Missing section. (Memorial ID: 56132468)

She married a navy seaman named LtJG. Ernest Stanley Goeckel in May of 1945. He was killed in July of 1945 at sea. He was given a headstone back in Royal Oak, Michigan in Oakview Cemetery. (Memorial ID: 238800207) In addition, due to his Lost At Sea status, he was put in the memorial at the Manila American Cemetery and Memorial in the Philippines. He was 23 when he died. (Memorial ID: 56772845)

It was after this that my grandmother married my grandfather in 1947. I am guessing around June. Everything seems to be behind paywalls so it is difficult to research things. If I had to guess now, the 1957 marriage license may well have been an anniversary thing. After losing two husbands to war, and having a third serve in WWII as well as Korea, and *COME HOME* she may have decided to celebrate the 10 year that way. It’s a more cheerful thought.

Anyway, I thought I would update this, seeing as when I wrote it I had no idea the two other soldiers existed, let alone were married to my grandmother.