University of Baltimore MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts student Albert Phillips remembers–with great affection–his fiercely compassionate and complicated grandmother Delores.
Roadkill
I remember the bloody and skinned muskrat that Grandpop laid out on your small, circular kitchen table. Resembling roadkill, its fangs were still intact, and Grandpop was preparing it for dinner. It was a delicacy only to him. He consumed other irregular animals: duck, rabbit, deer. If it could die and be sold, he would eat it. My cousins and I fake vomited when we saw the carcass removed from a bag, after Grandpop came in from a bike ride. Grandpop loved the bike rides just as much as he loved the animals he came back with. I wonder if you ate the roadkill with him.
The Vacant House
I remember playing outside with my older cousins, Ryan, Robert, and Rodney, at your two-story row home on Orleans Street. The outside had dark blue, chipped paint and any number of seconds inside was a lung cancer risk. Every adult who entered lit up a “fug” or “loosie” and casually smoked their days away while talking and watching whatever was on the television. One day, the R brothers went into the vacant home next to yours—the one you warned us never to enter—and I was the lookout, charged with ensuring no adults caught us. I firmly held my post. Aunt Robin, your only daughter, came out the front door of your house and asked, “Where your cousins at?” Before I could answer, they came sprinting out the front door of the forbidden vacant house, laughing to mask how scared they were. Aunt Robin caught us. You got word of it and lined us up—corporal punishment ensued.
Television
I remember my mom dropping me off at your house after school. You sat in the living room, on the sectional couch, watching The Young and the Restless or Guiding Light. I hated “the stories,” as you called them, but I would still sit and watch them with you until Batman: The Animated Series came on. I wanted to be like Batman, with all his billionaire gadgets and calm bravado. On weekends in the summer, I would lay on your bedroom floor with blankets because your room was the only one with an AC unit. I remember Bill Nye the Science Guy and Transformers playing on the television. You and Grandpop preferred Westerns.
In-Home Physician
I remember pretending to be Barry Sanders while in the alley near your house. I would juke, speed up, slow down, stiff-arm, and spin just like I saw Barry do during NFL games. A few times, I ended my alley football season early due to injury and got carried in by my cousins to you. You would slowly wrap my ankle with an ACE bandage and tell me I would be fine. I never went to the doctor while visiting you because you were the physician of the house. You kept everything from painkillers to bandages in a first-aid kit within arm’s reach.
Beatings
I remember your beatings. You were the only adult I remember beating me. I would stand and whimper before you hit me with your slipper, stick, or whatever was closest to your favorite recliner chair. My cousins would do the same. One day, in my fifth year of life, you beat me, and I promised never to return to your house. I lied. I came back the next weekend like it never happened. You always reminded me of this story, especially the part when I proclaimed, “I’m not coming back here no more,” and you responded “Good, don’t come back.” Neither of us meant what we said that day in 1995.
Drinkin’ and Smokin’
I remember you smoking Marlboro cigarettes by the carton and drinking whiskey mixed with Coca-Cola. I think Tupac played on your stereo system one time, which was strange because you did not listen to rap. I remember you smoking and laughing with Aunt Robin late into the night. I think this encouraged my cousins to start smoking. Eventually, you opted for a sober lifestyle. Grandpop did not follow in your footsteps. He drank National Bohemian beers and recycled the cans, and other cans in the neighborhood, for money from the scrap yard. You vowed to walk slowly behind his casket if he died due to his alcohol addiction. You kept your promise.
Chinese Food
I remember my dad moved you from your overcrowded and rundown house on Matthews Street to my parents’ more comfortable home in Cedonia. I was happy he chose to move you, and I was happy you chose to go along with it. I remember coming to see you. In those days, you seemed healthier because you were no longer surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke, and you were walking from the basement to the first floor to cook your own food. You also ate what my father purchased, and stepmother prepared. You complained, though. You were sick of “baked salmon and bland vegetables,” so I would bring you Greenmount Avenue’s finest Chinese food from time to time. Your favorite was Shrimp Yat Gaw Mein with no onions, extra shrimp, and an extra egg. You would smile and sway from side to side when I came through the back door to deliver your food like an Uber Driver. I always loved your smile.
Barbecued Pork Shoulder
I remember you cooking barbecue pork shoulder at your house near Belair Road. I think you figured I thought less of you since I was living in Cedonia with my dad. “I know this is probably not what you’re used to eating,” you said, explaining what was for dinner. I did not complain or grimace. I was thankful to be with you and to eat what you had “slaved over the stove” to create for the family. How could I shame the hands that prepared the food, even if it was something I wasn’t used to? That would be blasphemy.
30 Minutes with You
I remember you calling and asking, “You busy?” knowing that in most cases I would respond, “Nah, what’s going on?” regardless of what I was doing. Most of the time you just wanted Chinese food, a case of water, some sugar-free candy, a book of crossword puzzles. I loved coming to your apartment in Towson to drop off your requested items. When I got there, I would check your mail, sweep your kitchen, and take out the trash you had waiting for me. Those 30 minutes with you made your day, and that’s all I really wanted to do.
Honorary Degree
I remember you coming to every college graduation. You were there when I got my AA from Baltimore City Community College in 2011, BS from Morgan State in 2013, and MS.ED from Johns Hopkins in 2019. You also attended all my dad’s college graduations and my oldest brother’s high school graduation as well. When I look through the pictures, I can see you aging little by little in each one. Your weight increases, your hair goes from black to gray, and you go from standing upright to sitting with your walker. My dad told me all you wanted him to do was earn his high school diploma because you never earned yours. I am blessed to know that we exceeded your expectations many times over. You deserve an honorary degree in compassion.
Death
I remember my dad calling me while I was driving on North Avenue to tell me that you died. He said the nurse came by to check on you in your apartment and found you deceased in your favorite recliner chair. Your television was still on and the cords from your oxygen tank were still connected to your nostrils. On your bedroom table was an altar-like gathering of items I had given you. Two books, a signed poster, and an empty flower vase all sat there for guests to see when they visited you. They were still there when I met the family and March Funeral Home workers at your apartment before the workers put on hazmat suits, put your body inside a massive white bag, and took you out on a stretcher.
Ascendance
I remember your funeral. My dad ensured it was a beautiful celebration of life, not just a somber event. There was drumming. There was singing. There was dancing. There was so much love in that church on York Road. There were only two things I did not like. The first was the way you looked in the casket. You were in a beautiful light blue dress that my dad and stepmom picked out. It matched the casket my dad and I had picked out for you a week or so prior. However, the mortician made your eyes look squinty. I knew if you could have come back and guided the mortician’s hands, you would have done a better job. I also knew that this funeral was the final time I would see most of my cousins, until the next funeral. More people came to your funeral than attended any birthday event I remember you having. I guess they wanted to say their last goodbyes. It made me question if death was more important than life. I don’t fault them for it. I did not fault anyone for anything that day, besides maybe the morticians.
Voicemails
I remember the time I put your obituary on the refrigerator in my apartment. I stood there in disbelief that you were really gone in the physical form. I stood there and wished I could hear your voice again. Then I remembered that I had numerous voicemails from you on my cell phone. They were short and always ended with “Love you.” They were just what I needed to get by. They still help get me by.
The Afterlife
You used to remind me to slow down and rest so often, and now I see exactly why. You feared me burning out and not enjoying life because of how consumed it is with work and school. Well, I can’t say that I have found the balance yet, but I am trying. I even talk to my therapist about it. Oh, and I have a surprise to share with you. Do you get surprises if you are omnipresent or does the creator limit some of what you can see? Anyhoo, my mom is back. It’s a long story that I will tell you about someday, but I visited her twice and she calls me a few times per week. I know you would be so happy to see her, and she would be delighted to see you. I hope you will continue to guide me. And I hope you are enjoying your break from this world. You deserve it.
Albert is a Baltimore-based writer and educator whose work encompasses the alchemy wrapped within contemporary and past Black life. He often writes stories about the intricacies of family, Baltimore life in the late 90s’, and the necessity of community. He earned a B.S. in Print Journalism from Morgan State University, M.ED from Johns Hopkins University, and he’s an MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore.
