Grandma’s Rag Bag
My maternal Grandma was 94 years old when she reached the place the path meets the clearing. She grew up during the Great Depression, buried two husbands, raised three daughters, taught Sunday School, sang in the choir, and preached. She got her college degree when she was 80. Until her last year, she lived independently in an apartment complex for senior citizens. Aside from being my Grandmother, she was, also, my Godmother. When I was little I thought she was my fairy godmother, as a teenager I could talk to her about stuff that was on my mind, and as an adult I have profound admiration for her. I have her photo on my desk and I still talk to her.
The last conversation I had with her was special. Our conversations always started with her health and the weather. From there, she would tell me the latest gossip concerning the other ladies, who was mad at whom, who won the BINGO games, or who she wasn’t talking with and why. She got a little muddled sometimes and repeated herself; I think, when you’re a nonagenarian, you’ve earned the right to repeat yourself as often as you like. She liked to talk about growing up on a farm in the nineteen-twenties, stories from when my Mum was a girl, or about things we did when I was little. During our final conversation, we talked about Grandma’s Rag Bag.
I have warm, comforting memories of Grandma’s Rag Bag that I love to wrap myself up in like a patchwork quilt on a cold, damp day. It wasn’t an actual bag; rather, it was a big, worn pillowcase and it was stuffed fuller than Santa’s sack at sunset on Christmas Eve. Inside were old towels and shirts, pantyhose and stockings, hats and purses, and other sundries containing such magic as only a fairy godmother can provide. She would pull out this bag of wonders and let me play in her bedroom with the door closed so nobody would disturb me. This special time allowed me to be anything I wanted, and needed, to be. A fancy lady. A Cinderella princess. A princess-knight who slew her own dragons and rescued herself. I could be me and that was important because, as a young trans girl, I couldn’t be me anywhere else.
My Da hated that bag and I knew that. I knew there was something unspeakable about it, but I didn’t care because it was Grandma’s magic and magic is always secret. As an adult reflecting back, I have often wondered why my Da never stopped me from playing with those feminine cast-offs and hand-me-downs. He was uncomfortable with and angry about it, though I didn’t understand why, nor, to be honest, did he.
In our last chat, Grandma told me a part of this story that I had never heard; a part she had kept secret, perhaps, to protect my safe place or, perhaps, because grandma hearts are mysterious and know when the time for telling is. My Da had come to pick me up and opened the bedroom door. I, hosiery pulled up over my denim jeans, too-large floppy hat drooping over my eyes, and purse hanging from my arm, was too enraptured in being myself to notice. But, he noticed and was furious; as my Grandma said, fit to hit the ceiling. He turned and said to her, “No boy of mine is going to walk around dressed like a girl.” My Da is a near six foot, broad-shouldered, farm–raised man. He is imposing and my Grandma, four foot nine and plump, was not, but she stood her ground and told him to “sit down and shut up.” She told him this was my time at her house and she didn’t see anything wrong with what I was doing. He told her, “But, you have to make him mind.” My short, feisty Grandma told him I was minding, because she had told me to play and that was what I was doing. And nothing more was said on the matter.
Grandma told me this over the phone and could not see the tears welling in my eyes. I told her I love her. She said, “You don’t even know how much I love you. You are my Granddaughter and my Goddaughter and you are so precious to me.”
She was my fairy godmother and her love was transformative.