Bubble Gum in Disguise
By Georgiann Baldino
Published by Pearl Editions, LLC at Smashwords
Copyright Georgiann Baldino
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Bubble Gum in Disguise
Grandpa Blom didn’t belong inside the house. He’d rather be outside. Even when confined to an easy chair, his hands and eyes kept working. He was an elfin man, small stature and twinkling eyes. By the time I knew him, he could no longer stand up straight. Years of hard labor had perpetually bent him over. His legs formed a pronounced arch. To walk his body twisted at the hips throwing one leg then the other, rather like forcing a wishbone to amble across a table.
I have one treasured photograph of him taken near the end of his life, which shows him seated on someone’s front porch. The barrel-shaped wicker chair swallows him up, but his smile couldn’t be more complete. His whole face is involved. Hard to imagine how he could keep smiling like that after life had broken his body down. Even his grin shows wear and tear, for the teeth that remained were only nubs. Though he smiled readily and often I distrusted him. His “baby teeth” seemed out of place on someone his age.
Grandpa Blom died in 1955 when I was a preschooler, but over the years I have often thought about this picturesque man, who provided my earliest childhood memory. I’ve reconstructed the rest, building up his legend by talking to people who knew him. My mother reinforced my toddler images of him, laughing about my confrontations with Grandpa. He made light of everything, you see, and even at age four I took myself very seriously. Even then I doubted his veracity. The shakiness of his gait didn’t fool me; here was a man eager to make trouble.
When I was older and asked questions about him, Mother fleshed out his beginnings. She told me how he emigrated from Norway. Then fought with the woods to clear forty acres of Wisconsin farmland, on which he somehow managed to support his wife and thirteen children, supplementing his income by working for the lumber company. As a teenager I saw their house. I recall three rooms downstairs, two upstairs. The first floor consisted of a large kitchen, small bedroom for Grandma and Grandpa, and a parlor. The second floor under exposed rafters housed all the children. They still had no indoor bathroom. We used the privy, or at night, the chamber pot.
One of the stories my mother told seemed to make her very proud, as though proving his mettle. To get an even better picture of what kind of man this shadow figure was, I asked my aunt what she remembered of her father, and she confirmed the story my mother told. Grandpa never went to a doctor, ever, and he certainly never went to a dentist. One time when he was alone in the woods, a tooth pained him, so he pulled it himself with a nail.
My aunt also told the story of their Saturday night entertainment. How in the days before they had electricity, his prized possession was a battery-powered radio. It must have been a cumbersome receiver compared to what we use today, because Grandpa had to go into town on Saturday to get the batteries charged. He rarely took time for himself, working every available hour on the farm. The one exception was Saturday night when he put his freshly charged battery into his radio, settled into his rocking chair, and listened to “Barn Dance.” On a really rare occasion he would also treat himself to a cigar.
But that was years before I knew him. When as an old man he stayed at our house, Grandpa Blom had more time. And time of his hands meant trouble, for he chose to fill it with mischief. To prove he didn’t belong in a winter-warmed house, he’d pester one of his grandchildren. My mother told me that I was very often his target, because I got the maddest. The man with the childish smile knew exactly how to rile me. I can still remember his voice when he yelled at me, “You’re a Blom!”
I was old enough to know my last name and proud enough to defend it. “I’m a Grever—”
“You’re a Blom!”
“Grever!” We yelled back and forth for a while, each of us getting more stubborn with each volley.
Then suddenly he upped the ante. “You’re a Bum!”
I can still feel the exasperation I felt. Perhaps that’s because I see the scene replayed in any preschool child who loses patience. A tiny foot stomps. Irate fists clench. But Grandpa never gave me a chance to recover. He changed the rules constantly and did his best to keep the assault coming from all angles like a precursor of today’s music videos and the rapid-fire of images and information. Another curve. Before I could convince him I really did know my name, he motioned me to come closer, luring me with some hidden treasure in his pocket.
The twinkle in his eye said I’d want it—whatever it was. A grizzled hand slid in and pulled out what looked like burnt taffy. Conciliatory, he leaned close. “Have a bite—”
In my memory I feel myself take a half step backward.
“It’s bubble gum.” He savored the sound of his lie by smacking his lips.
The ugly wad he held out was too big for bubble gum. It had no wrapper, and a few bits of lint came with it and lay in his palm. His wrongly idle hand inched forward, tempting me to take it. The crevasses of his face spread into a smile. What teeth remained, those funny stubs, looked even more out of place.
He raised the disgusting wad to my lips. “It’s good.”
I picked up the doubtful looks Grandma and my mother gave, and I stomped off in the opposite direction.
For years and years afterward I felt that chewing gum would wear away my teeth like Grandpa’s down to the nubs. To this day I don’t chew gum; it always seems to upset my stomach the way tobacco would. Why is that? A physical process or a mental one, I can’t say.
But I can say that I wish I were more like Grandpa, able to face the harshness life dishes out, and never lose a sense of humor. I wish that God had given me a talent for mischief—and the ability to not fear pain but face it and move on—to enjoy simple pleasures and treasure scant moments stolen for myself. How I wish that I’d taken a bite of his chaw. If I had, the smile he would’ve given me would have been one more precious, life-defining memory.
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About the Author: Georgiann is a keynote speaker, the author of five books, numerous magazine articles and short stories. She co-facilitates a support group at Edward Cancer Center and gives presentations ranging in size from small workshops to large public gatherings. Her living-history presentation in character as Cornelia Hancock is popular with audiences and at Civil War Commemorations.
Visit her on the web at asoldiersfriend.com.