Fantastic

I am an introvert. When my husband proposed to me, I gleefully said yes, with a single caveat. It had to be private. I didn’t want people looking at me. Walking into a room alone causes an IBS flare. I am often thought to be cold, indifferent, arrogant, or just plain mean, but it’s a simple case of fear. I don’t like to speak first. I don’t like to walk in first. I prefer, almost demand, solitude over crowds. I get overwhelmed easily. Places like Walmart are painful for me because there’s just too much going on. It’s too peoplely. It’s too loud. It’s too colorful. All my senses ping at once and suddenly, hours later, I’m still in there attempting to avoid people, not because I don’t like them, but because I just cannot do it. Yet, once you get to know me, you can’t shut me up. I tell loud, raucous jokes, play board games, give hugs, and laugh like there will be no tomorrow. But the introvert thing, it’s a strong trait with me. Oddly, neither my mother nor my daughter had a shy bone in their bodies, prompting us to joke that it skips every other generation. And, boy is that ideology panning out in front of my very eyes. My granddaughter is an extrovert.

If personalities were weather systems, my mom was a hurricane. She would sweep into a room like a straight-line wind, all lanky arms and legs, her 5’10” frame taking up every inch of space. She was all light and legs and teeth and hair, all at once. Her voice was loud and low. She spoke with exaggerated hand gestures. When she laughed, she laughed with absolute abandon, red hair bouncing, feet stomping, arms slapping knees. People in other counties surely benefitted from her laugh, carried to them by the winds of her storm. She was infectious. No bad moods allowed with Marsha. Most people recall her as the lady who worked at Settler’s gas station for several years. Trust me, if you know, you know, as the young’uns say. Think of Leslie Jordan’s voice but down two whole octaves. “Well, hello, there! How’re y’all doin’ today? Good? Oh, yes (insert all vowels into the word yes). How’s your momma? She ok? Oh yes. Ok, hun, I can’t check you out until you tell me the word of the day, alright?” Hint: the word of the day was always fantastic. And, if you didn’t know that, she would inform you straight away. She took senior tap-dancing lessons, 2-stepped her way through every bar in town, took many a man’s last dollar over a pool table, and popped the clutch of her Ford F150 standard truck on all the patches of loose gravel in Forney. My mother never met a stranger. She could squeeze a smile out of Scrooge himself. Extrovert wasn’t enough. She was an ultravert, a megavert, if you will. And, trust me, you will.

By the time my only daughter started high school, I knew she was destined for greatness. We often call her Big Chynna as to not confuse my granddaughter, little Chynna. It seems very weird to me, though, considering Big Chynna stood at a whopping 5 foot and ½ inches at 16. I think little Chy is going to tower over that measurement one day. Big C had her grandmother’s take no prisoners disposition, but with a fatal dose of sarcasm. She got the sarcasm from me. It’s like I was making chicken and got carried away with the cayenne pepper. When I think of her, as I do, still to this day, every minute of every hour, I giggle through the tears of losing a child this special. She was so funny. She was “might pee my pants must sit down in kitchen floor immediately” funny. Her impersonations of people were spot on. Her comedic timing was impressive. After she was gone, my favorite shared memories from all the kiddos that knew her centered around her love of God, how she tried out for anything and everything, how she left it all on the floor with no embarrassment or shame, how she always had a genuine smile for anyone lucky enough to pass her in the hallway, and how she could make people laugh until they begged her to stop. Knowing that I had a miniscule role in creating that little piece of pie makes my life worth living, even without her here. Big C, I still want to be you when I grow up, baby girl.

My granddaughter lives with us, temporarily. Her father is waiting on a certain post to open within his secret squirrel job, so the whole fam is staying here until that all gets sorted. They’ll be moving far away, too far to see regularly. Make no mistake, my grandson is here, too. He’s just like me, a column for another day. Back to Chynna, the small one. She loves baking. At 8, the child can crack an egg without a trace of shell. And, she has an independent streak that would make a stubborn donkey surrender. When she walks into a room, the air becomes still. The feral cats approach her.

The frogs allow her to pick them up. She’s an enigma. She loves anything horror related, especially Medusa lore and werewolves. Her brain functions several waves higher than mine can comprehend. She loves me. Recently, we were at Walmart, far safer and easier for me with Lil C in tow. She spoke to EVERYONE. “Good afternoon. Hey! Hi there. Didi, do you need any personal care? Hello, sir, I’m here at Walmart with my grandmother. Ma’am, did you know that a Taipan snake has enough venom to kill 100 people in 10 seconds? Hi there – are you looking for cake pop sticks because that’s what we’re trying to find. Did you know that I want to milk venomous snakes when I grow up?” It was an introvert’s nightmare. Later than afternoon, cake pops finished and dishes in the sink, she said something to me that resonated deeply. “Didi, what would you do without me? You need me to talk to all the people.” Yes, little Chy, I do. I need you so much. You are fantastic.