Sometimes I have these random memory fragments that pop into my mind usually triggered by some inane moment in my day. Usually I write a whole blog about them in my head working out the details of how to explain something so meaningless to other people in a way that would be interesting. As soon as I realize they wouldn’t be interesting to anyone else, I quit writing and it never makes it to paper (or computer in my case).  For a change of pace, I’m going to go ahead and write one up as a warm up for the short story I am about to work on . . .

This morning I was getting ready to head up to school for Emily’s big moment in the spelling bee. Thanks to my 2009 hair disaster (read my blog on vanity for more horrible details), I can’t wash my hair too much (maybe 2-3 times a week) for at least a few more months until it is healthy again.  Occasionally, to stretch things out on that last day, I apply a light dust of talcum powder to absorb some of the oils. I can get away with this since I am blonde and it doesn’t really show up or smell weird. I can’t handle things that smell weird. If MWD is around when this happens he always seems a little taken aback. I guess it is strange to witness. This must be what led my mind to consider where I learned this secret and suddenly a vivid memory popped into my mind.

It was kind of a beautiful memory at first. A memory of an attractive soccer mom in her suburban house leaning over her massive bathtub wearing sensible khaki pants and a silky white bra. She was powdering her long blonde hair. It took me a few minutes to remember the details surrounding the image since my memory is so tattered. She was a relative of mine that I never knew before or after the day the memory was imprinted.

Of course, one memory leads to another and I recalled the whole situation with both intrigue and embarrassment. Several summers in my youth were spent traveling the nation in my Grandmother’s motor home. I didn’t really appreciate these trips with Grams at the time and in some ways I still don’t, but there were some important experiences that occurred during the adventures that helped make me who I am.

To be honest I enjoyed my Gram about 50% of the time. She wasn’t like other Grandmothers who bake cookies and dote about their perfect Grandchildren. And I know these kinds of Grandmothers exist; I have met some. My Grams was (still is, but with less steam and means) a bit of an eccentric soul with a short temper and a camera. She can’t stay put too long, but will love to sit anyone down to show pictures and tell stories of her travels. When she loves you it is a wonderful feeling, she can make you feel like the most important person she ever met. But when she is annoyed with you she is wicked. You are smart to stay on the red headed Irish lady’s good side at all times.

When Grandpa Bill died, Grams sold the beautiful house on the cliff of Sunday Canyon that Grandpa built for her. I imagine that she couldn’t bear to be in the house without him, but this could be a little romanticized by yours truly. Selling almost everything you own (or giving it to family) and living year round in a motor home takes a special kind of attitude and Grams has it. She had a place for everything in that miniature home, even her two fuzz ball Pomeranians: Chi Chi and Buffy. Most of the time she had a coffee stained travel mug in one hand and a fuzz ball in the other.

We traveled from Texas to Minnesota most times with detours that were not at all on the way to see various family members or friends of Grams. Most of which I didn’t know and haven’t stayed in touch with. It was a new adventure everyday starting with both of us smiling and singing along with Willie to “On The Road Again” and ending with her screaming at me to stay awake and do my job (of keeping her company).

I learned the skill of maneuvering through a moving house quickly in order to accomplish my other jobs like refilling the travel mug (never occurred to either of us to wash it) or strapping something down that was missed before take off. She usually had a fly swatter close and if I didn’t respond quick enough or the way she wanted I would get a quick smack on whichever body part was the closest. Then I spent the next 10 minutes trying to listen to her and remember to wipe the bug guts off her target as soon as possible.

There were some good times and I met all kinds of people. Sometimes there were kids to play with or even better were adults who enjoyed the distraction of an interested gangly pre-teen. I really enjoyed meeting one set of relatives who had a huge stretch of property with all kinds of ponds and wildlife. Walking from Gram’s home to theirs I spotted at least three peacocks, which amazed me. In my mind these people had to be rich. Back at home in Dad’s apartment or Mom’s tiny duplex our lives were much less glamorous. On that trip I acquired some marble bracelets from my Great Aunt who told me fantastic stories of her travels and entertained me for most of a family reunion. She took them right off her arm and insisted I take them and I still have them buried in a jewelry box somewhere.

One of the downfalls of visiting anyone with Grams is that she usually arrived unannounced. Her closer relatives, brothers and sisters (she was one of 6) never seemed phased. They even had hidden keys for her to use if they weren’t about. I don’t recall which trip or even which state we were in, but on this particular visit from my memory Grams wanted to drop in on her niece (I think). The neighborhood we drove into was the kind I only saw in movies. All of the houses seemed huge to me compared to back home. As an adult I realize this was an average upper middle-class subdivision with some kind of home owners association, but back then all the meticulously cared for gardens and pristine properties seemed like mansions.

As Grams chugged her home on wheels up to the house, I felt myself slinking down in the seat trying to avoid detection. I don’t remember exactly what I was wearing, but I was under dressed and uncomfortable with any options I had shoved in my suitcase under the sleeper-couch/table I called my bedroom for that summer. Based on pictures I would guess I had some shorts with obnoxious loud print all over them, a tank top and some white Keds. My suggestion that I should just wait in the motor home was immediately dismissed and I was ordered to lead the way. The lady who answered the door intrigued me. I can’t remember her name so lets call her Jill. She was probably in her late 30s of early 40s and she looked like a TV Mom with long straight blonde hair and pretty delicate features. Her voice remained honey sweet even though it was obvious that she was not expecting us and was in a rush.

Jill invited us in and explained that she was having some friends over for a celebration honoring her teenager. I can’t recall if it was a birthday or some other milestone, but it was bad timing on our part and I assumed we would be leaving right away. Grams didn’t take the hint and we began following the pretty lady around her house watching her take care of various party preparations while she tried to play catch up with her unexpected Aunt.

After a little while she told us she really had to go get changed, but we were welcome to stay for the party. She was nice about it, but anyone would have known she was just being polite. Grams told her we couldn’t, because we were going to hit the road, but she kept following the lady and I kept following Grams. They chatted as we entered her massive bedroom suite and then her bathroom. It was the nicest bathroom I had ever been in. There was an oversized jetted tub with a separate shower. Instead of having two sinks there were actually two sides of the bathroom separated each with a huge sink and vanity area. Jill’s vanity area was bigger than our whole bathroom at home. After weighing her options she seemed to give up hope that we were about to leave and she began to get ready with us there.

This lady I had never met before stripped off her shirt and began putting her makeup on. All I could do was stare and think about how rude it was that we were in here gawking while she was changing instead of leaving her to her plans. I was embarrassed, but too young to do anything about it. I watched her chat away with Grams and apply her make-up in a frantic hurry with her daughter, who was much older than me and too cool to notice my presence, occasionally popping in to ask a question. Then she did it. Jill grabbed a container of talcum powder and leaned over the tub sprinkling her hair lightly all over.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She looked over at me as though it was the first time she had noticed I was there. Then her face softened and she said, “Oh this is a wonderful little trick I use when I don’t have time to wash my hair and it’ll work for you since you have such pretty blonde hair. Only us blondes can do this.” She winked at me which I realize now meant that she was probably a bottle blonde like I am now. “If I put just a little in, it absorbs some of the oils and looks much better. See? Just watch this.”

Then she rubbed her hands all over her head like a maniac princess and brushed it out in the mirror. Perfect. She was perfect.

I don’t remember much after that. I think we stayed for the first few minutes of the party and then headed out after there was nothing left to embarrass me. I suppose I was embarrassed because I didn’t belong in this perfect world and I knew we were imposing. But Grams never cared about that and I collected some beauty advice along the way that paid off 25 years later.