Not to be Confused with "V For Vendetta"

Sepia Saturday: R for Renetta

Renetta Elizabeth
Looking the part.

My grandmother -- my Dad's Mom -- was a force to be reckoned with. One of three children born to second generation German immigrants in the second decade of the twentieth century, Renetta Elizabeth Metz never met a challenge she couldn't stare down with her big ole' cow-brown eyes. Precocious and headstrong, she made a difficult start for her life by running away with my grandfather to be married when she was only 15 years old -- not much older than she was in the picture on the right. (Can you imagine!) But she charged forward, anyway. Disowned (temporarily) by her parents for her poor decision, she and my grandfather, Arthur (commonly known as "Ott") moved in with his big Catholic family (he was one of 15, if I remember correctly) for a short time before striking out on their own. My Uncle Art was born shortly thereafter, then my Dad, Charles, in 1932. 

The little family struggled through the Great Depression, making it out on the other side with three children by the time World War II began. My grandfather, who was a plumber by trade, received a medical pass from the military (4F) and spent the war years in Baltimore Maryland, barely scraping by as he was a non-union worker. He believed that the unions were immoral -- a man ahead of his time, my grandfather, unafraid to take a stand and suffer the consequences, even if his wasn't the popular opinion. Ott cared for his family the best he could, but they were never well off and life was not easy.

My grandfather -- why Renetta
ran away from home. (He was
a handsome man...)

By the end of the war, my grandmother had lost one baby boy to meningitis (my Uncle Grover), and had brought their last child into the world, my Uncle Wayne, the last of the four boys still alive today.  

Weakened by a case of scarlet fever she'd had as a child, Renetta suffered from heart problems most of her adult life. In all, I believe she had seven heart attacks before the final one took her life when she was in her mid seventies. But, holy cow, was she a trooper! No shrinking violet, Renetta. To the end she was witty and outspoken, found fun in the simplest things, and expected a lot  from others because she expected a lot from herself. No matter how tough times were -- even after her husband died a decade before her own death -- she never missed paying a bill and never took welfare of any kind. She was a giver though. Often the one through the years that folks called to nurse their family members through their last days, she provided an informal kind of hospice care for those who could not afford hospice. In addition, our oldest uncle was handicapped, and she cared for him her whole life.

Renetta with her oldest three and
three cousins, plus one of the Pixies.
She's where our curly hair came from.
Lookit my Dad's! (That's him 
petting Pixie's ears.)

She was a faithful correspondent, my grandmother, Renetta. My never failing pen pal during my teenage years (my sister's, too) -- even when I was slow returning mail -- she always took a keen interest in my love life, which was a sore disappointment to her. (Alas, I'm sure she probably wanted to trade gossip with her sister, Ada, and her girlfriends at the hair salon.)  But, in point of fact, my grandmother took a keen interest in everyone -- and everyone's love life. My goodness, was she a gossip! And she could talk the hind leg off a mule -- but, we kids easily forgave her for talking about us to her cronies; she was one of those wonderful adults -- probably the only one in our young lives -- that actually talked to us kids; she listened, remembered what we'd said, and responded to us as equals. (Many may remember the days of "being seen and not heard" -- these were those days, my childhood.)

 But our grandmother, Renetta, was a rare adult friend to me and my siblings. She laughed with us.

Renetta with the three youngest babies at the time,
my sister, Linda, and our cousins, Bridget and Bonnie,
circa 1967 

Teased us. Played games with us. She loved Scrabble and Boggle, in particular -- and was accomplished at both. She was a "wordy" -- like her son, my Dad, and me. She read voraciously. An animal lover, too, my grandmother always had a small short-haired dog of a beagle variety -- and he/she was always named Pixie (though there were several of them all through her life). Another quirky thing, my grandmother raised budgies when we were little -- and taught them tricks. She made TV dates with Liberace and Jack Klugman in Quincy, MD. (She had crushes on both of those guys and never missed them when they were on TV. We still laugh at that!) She made us watch The Lawrence Welk show with her -- and she sang along with every song she knew -- even though she could not carry a tune in a bucket. Renetta was not a great cook, either, but she made a great meatloaf and always had the most wonderful deli cheeses and meats and unusual breads, like pumpernickel and rye, that we never got at home. We drank out of colorful aluminum cups at her house and ate ice cream out of tiny little bowls. And she made coffee that you could stand a spoon in, so dark roasted and rich you had to put a half cup of cream in it to make it a mahogany brown. At Christmas our grandmother had every possible shape of sugar cookie, from star to camel -- and those shiny hard candies that looked like looped up ribbon and cut your tongue if you bit into them wrong. (She always warned us about that.)

Our Grandmother on the porch steps.

Though she lived in a couple other houses before her death, our earliest childhood memories are of our grandmother and our grandfather's rowhouse. It was in the middle of Baltimore, Maryland, a couple blocks from the Pimlico Race Track, a busy bustling neighborhood, full of friends my grandparents had known for decades. No one every passed on the street who did not stop to greet our grandparents. Sometimes the passersby would sit on the stoop to chat or come right on up and park on the glider and my grandmother would bring out iced tea. We'd sit and listen, respectfully eavesdropping while we continued on with our game of jacks or Chinese jump rope or cards.  We learned to play War and Gin Rummy on that porch, my brothers and I, and how to make long long chains out of the rubber bands my grandfather threw down between the rowhouse porches when he got

My brothers, Greg and Steve, and me and my
little sis, Linda, rocking the pigtails -- on the
pavement just down from our grandparents' porch.

his paper every morning. (People used to do that: read papers every day -- and they trusted what they read. Imagine.) There was a firehouse a block or two from the rowhouse that provided never-ending
entertainment. Whenever they heard a siren, night or day, my grandmother and my Uncle Art would run out on the porch to see which way they were going and whether or not they could spot smoke on the horizon. We kids, of course, ran right out there with them -- day or night. Picture it -- three or four of us little kids, our middle-aged uncle, and our grandma in our pajamas out there before sun-up speculating on whose house was burning down and is that smoke or just a cloud?  But how I remember that porch. Painted battleship gray, it ran the length of the row house and was deep enough for a table and four chairs and a squeaky metal glider. We pretty much lived out on that porch when we visited, and in happy memory of those days, I have retro metal chairs on my porch now just like my grandparents'.  

My grandfather, great grandfather (the carpenter)
and a friend, with a chair my great grandpa built.

Indoors my grandparent's house was as eclectic as my grandmother. Her furniture mostly dated back to

the 1950s and '60s, except for a few pieces made by her own Dad who was a carpenter, and an Edwardian era buffet, dresser set, and bedstead. (I have one of her dressers!) Everything else was pretty much bright red and white, 1950s kitsch. Loud and corny and totally her. 

We had another dear grandmother, Mamie -- my Mom's Mom, -- who was sweet and quiet and calm and gentle, who talked very little, but who could cook like nobody's business. We loved her dearly. She was the image of a Norman Rockwell grandmother -- one that a "green" grandma of only a few years (moi)  might want to emulate. But, you know what? I can try, but it's not me. My sister and I were just saying how doggone it if we're not both more Renetta than Mamie. Or maybe more like shadows of Renetta. We've not been forged in the fire of hard times like Renetta, and while my sister might be just about as kitschy and colorful, I fall short. But we're the talkers, my sister and I, and unafraid to speak our minds when necessary. And we both like Scrabble -- and iced tea -- and when we hear sirens, I don't know about my sis, but I go running out to look. I would be exceedingly pleased to know I had left the same kinds of lasting memories for my grandchildren that Renetta did for us. 

Sepia Saturday spurred these reminiscences with their

  Letter R prompt this week. Though I enjoy catching up

with the other posts on Sepia Saturday and it's fun to

join their link-up over there where memories are shared,

I posted this chiefly so that these things won't be forgotten 

in our own family.

Of the seven of us grandchildren from Renetta's son, Charles'

family, only five are left, and many of these memories,

especially of the early days in Pimlico would only be 

recalled by me, as the younger siblings were either not

born or were too small to remember those days.

If you like these kinds of things, be sure to run over to Sepia Saturday to see 

what creative entries they'll get for the letter R. It's always lots of fun! 

 So much wonderful history over there, and I'm grateful as their other participants must be

 for the chance to set things down on the record for posterity!