Pin Curls

           Pin curls she called them.  I was 2 generations behind to understand what she meant, but she was wearing them the first time I met her.  Her blue eyes sparkled when she saw me.  I intrigued her.  She wanted to like me but I stood in line behind other girls she had met in similar circumstances who had inspired disappointment in one way or another. 

Night had long since fallen when I stepped onto the screened-in front porch and knocked on her front door.  It was warm for the last night of December, and I only wore a thin leather jacket more appropriate for the beginning of spring rather than the beginning of winter.  The front porch overlooked the C&D Canal, and the glow of the channel lights bounced off the water that slipped under the crescent bridge towering above it.  I stared at the silent serenity until my New Year’s date answered the door and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.  He grabbed my hand and turned to introduce me to his grandmother. 

                She greeted me in her pin curls with warmth and kindness, sitting in her maroon recliner that was situated in the corner of her poorly lit living room. Her chair faced a dated television set atop a cart.  Doilies covered everything from the sofa to the end tables.  Every inch of the living room was covered by a piece of furniture and opaque shades and heavy drapes kept nosy neighbors from seeing anything through the windows.  Despite the clutter, the room was clean and inviting in a homey sort of way.  I sat down on the chair seated to her left.  She was eager to speak and apologized for meeting me in her pin curls.  The bobby pins that held together twisted pieces of dark blonde hair were a mass of confusion atop her head.  They made no sense to my understanding of style or my own attempts at beauty.  An explanation would have served better than an apology.

                My date sat across from us on the blue love seat that matched the chair I sat in.  He smiled at me as I genuinely listened to her chatter about the latest Lifetime movie she had watched that afternoon and the one she was watching now.  She offered me a mint from a tin of Altoids next to her on the end table.  I declined and commented on the stack of Danielle Steele novels underneath the tin.  She loved to read she said.  She was silent for a brief moment as she sucked on a mint and the noise of Lifetime television filled the room.  The lull in the conversation wasn’t long, though.

 Her chatter was incessant but inviting, and I barely responded with 10 words in the 15 minutes she talked to me.  This was her house she told me.  It had been in her late husband’s family since before the turn of the century.  She and her husband had retired here 30 years ago.  He had been a Keebler salesman, and this had required him to move several times.  She also worked at various jobs as a secretary or a switchboard operator.  Being a switchboard operator kept her privy to all the bosses’ secrets, especially affairs with other women.  Her grandson lived with her, now, to help her maintain the house and keep up with the bills.  She also used to be a softball pitcher in high school.  Fast pitch, she explained.   When I told her we had that in common, I crossed the threshold into her good graces and she clapped her hands as she smiled.

                My date took this opportunity to leave and gently pulled me up from the chair and held my hand as he explained to his grandmother that we had a New Year’s Eve party to get to.  She understood and took my other hand to say good bye and wish me a happy new year.  I did likewise and noticed how soft her hand felt in mine.  I smiled at all of the doilies as we made our way to the front door.  They seemed to define her somehow, and the room itself oddly gave me a sense of home, though I’d never been there before.   

                It was 3 years later when my new year’s date became my husband and that room did become home as did Nana.  I only knew her for the last 7 years of her life, but her doilies often engulf my thoughts and play with my laughter.   As for her pin curls, well, there’s a little Altoid’s tin that sits in the drawer of my vanity.  Whenever a bobby pin came out from hiding in a crevice between the carpet and the wall or jarred itself loose from somewhere deep inside the floor board heaters, it found its way into that tin.  Though the tin is now full and in our new house there will be no bobby pins to find, little hands find their way into the Altoid’s tin in mommy’s vanity and Nana’s pin curls have found another generation to befuddle.