The Grandmother From Hell

If I had to rank all the unforgettable characters in my life, my grandmother on my Dad’s side would be in the top 10.  And it’s not for the reasons you might expect.   We called her Momee. You know the sweet, doting grandmothers you see in those old holiday specials?  That was not her.  Nowhere  close.   In fact, even though I loved her, I was a little scared of her.  It probably has something to do with an event that happened when I was about 4 years old.  For whatever reason, I decided it would be a good idea to hide from Momee in her front yard.  I didn’t  answer her calls as she walked back and forth calling my name.  After about 15 minutes,  I came out of hiding, and sauntered in the back door, expecting my relieved grandmother to pick me up, tearfully hug me, and give me a cookie. Wrong.  She took one look at me, hung up the phone (she was calling the police), and went straight to a cabinet in her laundry room. Then she got out a paint stick and beat my butt. It was such a butt whipping, that I remember it 62 years later. I still think the reason I hate to paint is because of what happened that day.    

And what kind of grandmother had a reputation so outrageous that a complete stranger would know about her antics?  Momee.  

Let me explain.  My wife Carol was having some minor repair work done on her car.  While she was in the waiting room, she struck up a  conversation with an older gentlemen.  Upon discovering he had retired from American Cast Iron Pipe Company, she innocently asked if he knew any of the Hobby’s that worked there.  That’s because my grandfather, father, and uncle were lifetime employees of this fine company.  The response she got was not what she expected. The old man’s face went blank, and his eyes widened. Then he spoke.  

“Are you kin to those Hobby’s?” The emphasis was on the word “those”. 

“Yes,” she replied. “James Hobby was my father-in-law,” 

He shook his head in disbelief and said,“Oh my goodness, I knew them all.  Their Dad, JB, was one of the kindest, gentlest men I’ve ever known.  But James and Paul, that’s another story.  They were full of devilment. I heard they got it from their Mother.” 

Carol listened intently, because she knew what he said was 100% true.  He continued. 

“I heard a story about their Mom that says it all.   They had a paper boy who rode his bike and threw their paper every day. Except he never hit the porch. So every day, Mrs. Hobby had to fish it out of the shrubbery.  Well, at the end of the month,  the paper boy came by to collect. He rang the doorbell and she answered, took the bill, then told him to wait for just a minute.  Soon after she returned to the porch with a handful of quarters, nickels, and dimes which she threw out into the yard, saying,’There’s your payment. Now you know how I feel!’  That’s how she was, and that’s how I know they got it all from her.” 

She couldn’t wait to get home to tell me.  I laughed uncontrollably, then marveled at the unlikely sequence of events. My  grandmother has been gone for about 40 years, and a complete stranger tells my wife a story that is so spot-on Momee that I know it’s true.  It’s a like a Beatles fan discovering a decades old song the Fab Four did that they’ve never heard before. 

And it also probably explains why, on occasion,  I have been so full of devilment.   It’s a family tradition.   

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