It's in the Genes

by Janette Cole

Peering into my mirror, I see a bloated face with a hint of good bone structure lurking beneath the surface. The beauty of my mother, sister and grandmother is hidden under an unsightly layer of fat. How did this happen? I ask myself, as I shrug into my ill-fitting oversized sweater and dash off to meet the graceful, thin women who are not-so-secretly ashamed of their oversized progeny. I dread the meeting, knowing I'll receive a sad tsk of the tongue from my grandmother, the waspish matriarch. Such a pretty face. . . words that etch away my self-confidence with their acidity. I want more than a pretty face. I want recognition that I belong; that I'm more than the fat sheep of the family. That somewhere, somehow the DNA that flows in the veins of my mother and grandmother also flows in me. I want to be a part of a family.

Even when I was a tiny little girl, I knew I was different. Unlike the rest of my family who were always in hyper-frenetic go go go go go mode, I liked to take my time and do a task correctly and well. Whether it was baking a cake or knitting a hat, I took my time and enjoyed the act of creation. I was alone in this attitude in a houseful of women on the move. My mother would say "for land's sake, just DO IT!" My grandmother would say, without a single hint of irony, "why do it right when you can get it done?" I find their attitudes baffling, while they find my attitude of slow complacency maddening. They all called me a slow-poke with varying degrees of disgust and exasperation. I just liked to smell the roses, so to speak.

As I grew older, I started to hear whisperings of another sort. "She's just like my mother," my grandma bitterly told my mom when she thought I wasn't listening. The idea intrigued me. I was just like someone? Someone in the family? As the whispers grew into full-fledged allegations of dreaded similarity, I longed to learn more of this woman who had died a decade before I was born. She was not spoken of highly in our household, but neither was I. The words "just like my mother" were used as an insult from my grandmother as she cursed my ever-expanding girth and love of baking and handicrafts. I was thrilled to know that someone, even if that someone was long gone from the world, would have approved of my favorite hobbies.

My mother had very little information about my great-grandmother. Though they lived in the same town, my mother had met her own grandmother a mere handful of times in her childhood. She remembered only that she'd been soft and round, stirring up soup and kneading homemade bread in an old fashioned kitchen complete with wood-burning stove. There had been a rift in the family when my grandmother was a young woman, which meant my mother and her siblings were not allowed to know their maternal grandparents. No one knows the cause of the rift, but I suspect it was the result of a difficult childhood. My grandmother was the oldest of six children during the Great Depression. I know she had to pick cotton and help her mother with other onerous tasks. If my grandmother does one thing well, it's hang onto a grudge, so I assume much of her anger towards her family comes from the hard knocks that everyone suffered during the time period.

Despite limited knowledge, I was intrigued by the idea of this great-grandmother of mine. From the snippets I heard, I learned that she was an excellent baker, a voracious reader, and a lover of all things crafty. I, too, love baking, read every thing I can get my hands on, and spend much of my free time knitting. No one else in my family would "waste time" on such pursuits. Shopping and jogging and gym-hopping are the approved pastimes for the rest of the women in my family.

I started asking more and more questions about my great-grandma, but my grandmother refused to speak of her and no one else knew anything of substance. After much persuasion on my part, my mother gave me the address of my grandmother's youngest brother. He lived in our very town, just ten measly miles away! I'd never met him or anyone else from my grandmother's family, but I was determined to find out more about my ancestor.

Always shy, I didn't have a clue how to approach my newfound family members. If I wasn't desperate to find a place to belong I probably never would have gathered up the courage to call my uncle's number one bleak November day.

That day forever changed my life.

My aunt Marie answered the phone and was tickled pink when she learned that I was her great-niece. I wanted to have a short conversation to arrange a possible face-to-face meeting, but I ended up talking to her for almost two hours about all sorts of family history. She had lived with my great-grandmother, her mother-in-law, for several years as a young married woman and had nothing but love and respect for her. She insisted that I come over for supper as soon as possible and meet the rest of the family.

That Sunday I set off to meet a whole new family of great-aunts and uncles, second cousins, and other distant relations. They were all delighted to welcome me into their hearts and their homes. They had not had any contact with my grandmother for decades, a sorrow that was obvious when they spoke of her. They were unsure about the cause of the coldness that ate at her heart, and had spent years trying to repair the unknown damage, all to no avail. She would have nothing to do with her family. My call had been an oft-dreamed of fantasy, the first step toward reconciliation.

As we sat around the kitchen after supper, the family members began to speak of my great-grandmother and I soaked in the information. It became clear that there was a reason my grandmother said I reminded me of her mother--the similarities were almost eerie.

The clincher came when my uncle declared that his mother had had the second sight. My eyes went wide and I listened a little more intently as he told story after story of his mother's uncanny ability to know things she had no right to know. Most could be explained away as astute observations by a keen mind, but there was one particular incident that stuck with me. My uncle was being rowdy, as little boys often are, and making a mess in the house. His mother told him to go outside and wait for the potato truck. She told him that his sister--my grandmother--would jump out of the back of it when it drove by. My grandmother had been living in the big city for a few years by then and never visited home. She rarely wrote and had not sent a letter saying she would visit. My uncle spent the day watching for the potato truck, and sure enough, my grandmother popped out the back when it rolled by, her first visit in months.

I had never told anyone, but I also sometimes wonder if I have the second sight. It feels so silly to say such a thing, but I've had several experiences that I can't explain away. The last, and biggest, occurred a few years ago when I was standing in line at the bank. The hairs on my neck stood on end and I knew the man in line behind me was going to rob the bank. I scurried out without my money and monitored the nightly news. Sure enough, there had been a robbery attempt that day. Can the second sight be genetic? I guess so.

Pictures were passed around at that first family dinner, and I smiled when I saw that my great-grandmother was a nice, round, apron-wearing woman. In most pictures she was wielding a spoon or crotchet hook. She always looked happy, even in the pictures taken during the days of poverty.

I'd finally found my roots. This woman looked just like me. She shared my interests. She was slow and gentle and always kind. I know she never would have been irritated by my desire to bake the perfect pie instead of purchasing a frozen one.

Since that time 15 years ago I've become a regular at my "new" family's home. I call and visit my grandmother out of a sense of duty. I visit my uncle's family out of a sense of joy and belonging. They showed me my roots and made me feel special. They put a face on my great-grandmother and are quick to point out that I'm just like her--the difference is that they love her and respect her and don't make the comparison feel like an insult.

I don't have a lot of faith in religion, but I like to think that my great-grandmother is looking down on me, acting as my guardian angel when I am in need of a listening ear. I've had two miscarriages and I like to imagine that she rocks my babies to sleep at night and gives them all the love that I can't give right now. I know it's silly. With six kids, 17 grandkids and who knows how many great-grandchildren she can't be a heavenly babysitter for all of our tragedies, but it gives me comfort. I like to think that perhaps she'd take the time to take care of my children since we are so much alike.

As I look into the mirror and see the extra fat that lines my face, I know that I have something my beautiful mother, sister and grandmother will never have. I have a piece of my great-grandmother. I have compassion and joy. When I visit my family today I will take homemade cookies for my nieces and nephews. They will climb on my lap and snuggle into my extra cushiony body. They will tell me that they like sitting on me because I'm soft and squishy, not like the bony women in my family. I may be only 33 and childless, but I feel like the matriarch of the family. I'm the one who comforts the children and bakes the Christmas pies. I'm the one who knows how to stitch up the torn coat and knit a snug winter hat. I'm just like my great-grandmother. I belong to this family in a way that my grandmother, mother and sister will never understand.

The Author

Janette Cole is a creative soul trapped in an insurance saleswoman's body. She has written several poems and short stories, most of which she hides in her underwear drawer.