“Was Ducky nice?” Mare asks me. I smile. In some ways, Ducky was the nicest person you would ever meet. But she was never easy.
“She was,” I say. “But she could be horribly critical.”
“What’s critical?”
“Critical means that she could offer her opinion of your choices, even when you didn’t ask and didn’t want it. And it often wasn’t positive.” Mare frowns.
“That doesn’t sound nice.”
“Oh, it was horrible. Really, Mare, she was one of the most critical people I knew. When I used to drive up to the House to see her, to spend the week, I was a little afraid. Something would be wrong about me. My manicure, my job, my attitude. She’d find something. It was nerve-wracking.”
“That doesn’t sound nice at all!”
“No one’s perfect, love. I learned — later than I wish I had — that she was critical because she loved me fiercely. She came from a family of brilliant people and she wanted me to live up to that, which was actually a huge compliment.” Mare’s face has clouded. She does not want to hear that her namesake was not perfect.
“What didn’t she like? About you?”
“Oh, that’s easy. She thought I was too loud and self-centered. I could be gauche. I wasn’t as smart or capable as Dad. And she hated my boss.”
“Helen?”
“Yes. Helen. She hated Helen.” It stings a little. Thank God for my youth. If I had undertsood — had truly known — I would have never have had the nerve to work for a conservative Congressman, to stick to my guns in the face of Ducky’s disappointment.
“Did it make you sad?”
“Yes. I feared Ducky’s criticism.” Mare blinks, pained. That sweet blue-eyed baby I birthed seven years ago is fading away, and the girl facing me is learning that nothing is all good or all bad.
“Tell me. Tell me about a time when she was criticizing.”
“Okay,” I say. I think and then begin: “She had an infection in her foot. It was a cut … I don’t remember how she got it. I was in my early twenties — drove from Washington to spend the week with her. She sent her maid home and it was just us. The infection got worse and I wanted her to get it seen. She agreed, and I drove her to the emergency room.
“She was a horrible patient. Every time they poked her, she winced, and spoke sharply. She trusted no one. And nothing I did was right. I brought her the wrong thing to drink, or didn’t adjust her pillow properly, or was too familiar with the doctor or not firm enough with the nurse. It was really impossible.
“When the doctor was treating her, she whispered to me what he was getting wrong, but I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do about it. I offered to take her to a different hospital, and even that was wrong. The hospital was fine, she said. She just wanted me to know she didn’t think he was hygenic enough.
“I know now, I understand. My Granddad was a brilliant doctor, and he made sure she always had the best care, wherever she was. This was her first trip to the hospital without him. She was in the care of her 24 year-old granddaughter. It must have been really hard.”
Here it is: one of those horrible moments I have where I suddenly see so clearly what I missed at the time. She must have been so lonely for him that day, in a hospital packed with young doctors fast-talking in a language she barely understood any more. As scared as she was, she trusted me. She was critical, and spoke sharply to me, but she did as I said.
“When we left the hospital my nerves were shot. It had been hours and we were both tired and I wasn’t up to making dinner. She suggested a restaurant, and I said fine, let’s go, and we went and sat down and I ordered a glass of wine.
“Ducky didn’t approve of alcohol. I had taken two sips when she said, with a huff, ‘I can see it’s changing your mood already.’” — Here I laugh. Thank God the wine was changing my mood.
“A man approached the table,” I say. “He said to me, ‘You look very familiar, do we know each other?’ – and Mare, that is, like, the cheesiest line ever. And I was so tickled. What a way to end the day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he was basically saying that he thought I was cute, and he wanted to date me. I was married, sitting there with my 90 year-old grandmother, completely flattered. So I was just about to say something tactful and pleasant when she interrupted. This firm little voice from across the table: ‘I am Mrs. Lamar Soutter. This is Mrs. Franklin Schwarzer. And I don’t believe either of us knows you!”
I laugh. Mary doesn’t get it, but the memory is rich, and I am guffawing.
“Why is that funny?”
“Because that poor man,” I laugh. “It was mortifying and priceless. See, in Ducky’s world, he was completely out of line. I was married. She was my chaperone. It was not okay for him to even remotely question my availability. Shy as she was, she was not tolerating some man approaching our table in pursuit of her married granddaughter. The look she gave him was spectacular, and he was out of there in about five seconds.”
“What did you do?”
“Took another swig of wine,” I laugh.
“What did Ducky do?”
“She looked at me. And I grinned at her. And she raised her eyebrow and said: ‘Femme fatale.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It means: ‘woman who is dangerous whom men can’t resist.’”
“Oh.” Mare doesn’t know if this is a good story or a bad one.
That’s okay. I am learning how years can pass before you understand a story. You keep them and they seep into your soul and long after a person is gone, she can still teach you things.
I have never commented before, but this story just filled my heart. Your Ducky stories remind me so much of my close, complicated relationship with my MomMom. The summer after my PopPop died, after my freshman year in college, I stayed with her to keep her company. It was, for a very young and self-centered woman, a frustrating and beautiful education. All my friends were out partying, and we were in bed by 9:30 (we shared a room with really uncomfortable Kraftmatic adjustable beds). Then, we’d get up at 2:00 am because she needed to pee. After that, she had trouble falling back asleep, so we’d watch The Jefferson’s on Nick at Nite and talk and giggle until about 4:00 am when she could finally drift back to sleep. They were some of the strangest, most frustrating, and most precious moments of my life. Getting to know my girlhood hero for the beautiful, flawed woman she really was, and loving her more because of that knowledge. Anyway, I took her to Olive Garden for the soup and salad lunch (her fave) one afternoon. The waiter was quite attentive and friendly…not inappropriate, but clearly digging my cute little 19-year-old self. At this point, I was dating my (now) husband, whom my grandmother ADORED. After he took our order and walked away, my grandmother looked at me with a very stern expression and, in her most horrified voice, scolded, “Julie. I think that man is ATTRACTED to you!” I just started laughing and couldn’t stop, and then her sternness melted away and she dissolved into her famous belly laugh. THe poor waiter was so confused when he returned with our food and found us laughing with tears in our eyes.
I’m sorry for the length of this comment, but I was so touched to read your similar experience. It brought this memory back with such clarity, and I wanted to thank you for that. She died when my oldest was less than two years old, so none of my three babies will remember her. But I hope they will KNOW her from my stories and from the fingerprints she has left on me throughout my life. Keeping her alive for them is a bittersweet task, but such an important one. Thanks for the post. I always enjoy them.
Great story. Tell more!
I so love how you converse with your children… I’m sure you can attribute that to Ducky as well. Straight-forward, candid, truthful.
Perfect. This post is perfect, and lovely.
This post = delicious! I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I really enjoyed reading this one.
I love that Ducky was a complicated person. All the stories you’ve told of her before make her seem like the sweet ole Gran. Ducky had depth, it’s great!
So love this post. I am due with my second child any day, my first daughter. I am torn over using a family name that honors my grandmother who too was extremely critical, manipulative, and now her son (my father) cannot even stand to talk to her. I want to believe that grace is enough to overcome this feud, i dont’ want to decide not to use a family name because of a grudge, but i don’t want to upset my father either. would love to know another mother’s thoughts – you seem older and wiser.
Evelyn — I have no advice to give. I was lucky — Ducky was probably the most purely good person I have ever known, and she was never cruel. It was the most obvious thing in the world to me that my first daughter would take her name, if she were okay with it. The only thing I will say is that the name is only the first major decision you will make that seems to involve your family, but actually doesn’t at all. It is entirely your decision with your partner, and the name and what it means is something for you to decide and then let everyone else know.
Evelyn, I read your comment at work, but couldn’t respond. I’ll try to be quick here. Here’s my situation. I named my daughter after one of my grandmothers. She was incredibly stubborn, direct and occasionally mean. She was also the strongest, most independent and fierce woman I have ever known. She could be mean and sometimes I would get angry with her, but I always understood that she loved me unconditionally. She was my mother’s mother and if I had half her spirit I would be thrilled. My other grandmother was munipulative and cruel. She was the one who told me when I wore my first bikini at age 14, 5 feet tall and barely 100 lbs, that I was started to get a little chunky and I should watch what I wear. I have held that and other statements for too long, but still I loved her. While I loved them both equally when I was younger, I can now look at them with an objective eye. I admire and respect one and the other I pity a little. I still have love for them both and I understand better where they come from, but I will never consider naming anyone after my father’s mother. I don’t know if this helps you make a decision, but remember that your daughter will carry her name for a lifetime and you want to be sure that it is a name she will be proud of.
well, no wonder you (and your girls) are remarkable, with such a woman to inspire and teach you.
I just love your Ducky stories. Keep ‘em coming!
I’m very glad the Ducky stories are well-received.