1976, California. While the United States celebrates our country's 200th birthday, California is in the throws of its 4th driest year in California’s history. The drought eventually spills over into 1977, becoming the driest year of record in California history at the time. Rivers stop flowing. Rainfall is practically nonexistent. California Agriculture and Livestock takes a withering hit, and Marin county pumps a staggering 10 million gallons of water a day from the East Bay through a grant-funded, emergency water pipeline over the Richmond-San Rafael bridge.
1976. East Bay California Memories. I am four years old and even I am feeling the drought impact. Gardens die, toilets go unflushed, and we all learn to brush our teeth with the water turned off. To this day, hearing water on while anyone is brushing their teeth makes me anxious.
This is a time of candy necklaces, John Denver 45 LPs played on single boxed record players in teenagers' rooms, cheerleader babysitters, Hee Haw overalls and steamed artichoke dinners, spread out on newspapers in front of the living room TV, watching Masterpiece Theater or Sunday evening's Wonderful World of Disney.
My father’s parents are visiting from Seattle. It is a bright, sunny East Bay day. Given the state of the drought, it may or may not be summer. My hand is pressed, against the large, living room window. I watch my grandparents exit their car, leaving the car doors open. A tension clothing rod is suspended across the sedan’s back seat. I've seen it before.
A blue, semi-transparent, accordion-like plastic sheath covers the rod. Wire dry-cleaning hangers sit neatly in-between sparkly, blue accordion grooves. Draped on the hangers are my grandmother’s thick, double knit, elastic waist polyester pants and my grandfather’s leisure suit jackets with white contrasting stitching.
I love the feeling of dragging my fingernail across the soft, plastic folds. Each time my finger moves from ridge to valley there is a satisfying pull and pop as the accordion folds, then snaps back into place.
My grandfather, brother and father are bustling in between our house and the blue sedan, unloading hard plastic suitcases with long silver tabs that pull open and snap closed. My grandfather is not much of a presence. I can tell he has a sense of right and wrong. It is the right thing to unload the car. All the way. It is wrong thing to leave even one box remaining in the car. That is not how it’s supposed to be done.
My grandmother is quite content to leave unpacking to the men. She wanders through our house, pretending it doesn't matter what she notices. After entertaining hugs from me, she requests a glass of water from my father in her usual, not so subtle way, that leaves out the request. “Gary, get me a glass of water”, she says pointing her chin towards our kitchen.
By all accounts, my grandmother adores her grandchildren. Of my two grandmothers, she is the most lively, most demonstrative grandma. She hugs us, laughs a lot, has a mischievous grin and a dark, wicked sense of humor that makes me feel the way my stomach flip-flop after an underdog push older from my brother.
Grandma is a large, heavy, woman with massive, soft breasts that comfort the heads of cranky children, who have wandered past the exhaustion threshold after a day of too much candy, sunshine, splinters and backyard dirt digging. I love curling up in her arms. Her body envelopes me in comfort, safety and love. Even nearly half a century later, the muscle memory of my young head against her chest echos the feeling of rest.
“Get me the boxes from the trunk”, she orders my grandfather, lifting her head towards the trunk with a snap and a quick chin raise. My grandfather springs into action. Coins clink against car keys in his pockets and he dutifully heads back outside to retrieve three long, sturdy cardboard mailer boxes. The boxes are printed with red and white ink, saved from monthly deliveries of Texas Ruby Red Grapefruit. These coveted boxes are long and shallow. Each one has a folding top with tabs that tuck satisfyingly into sturdy sides. Several boxes can be stacked one on another, creating a homemade, 1970's streamlined organizational system that predates plastic bins.
Grandma’s eyes are twinkling. Her stars tell me she has presents.
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