Apocryphal Tale of Grandmother

Thinking about a certain client, I realized that I had a perfect metaphor, and I also realized that there was no way to tell the story, with it coming out correctly.

My father’s father, my grandfather who taught me to fish? His wife — I always thought she was my grandmother, as I never knew any different, not as a child, she was a strong force, wild woman from West Texas, the high plains of West Texas when there wasn’t much out there.

Memphis, TX, I think — like Lubbock or Amarillo — only less.

Much, much less.

Apocryphal Tale of Grandmother

The story that was related to me, and I am from a long line of raconteurs, not necessarily good ones, but my family has a history of being able to sermonize. The tale as it was passed onto to me? In notably sonorous form?

New York, one winter. Grandfather had taken Grandmother to New York, would’ve been — many years back. Men in hats. They were there for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, as I recall the tale — and I am a suspect tale-teller.

Black Friday at Macy’s, and there’s was riot, a stampede, and women, in hats and heels, all rushing towards to sales when the doors opened, that Friday.

Grandmother shows up at the hotel, clothing akimbo, hat on crooked, make-up smeared, and her story?

“There was a sound like a pistol shot, then a mob, like a stampede? And no, guns don’t scare me, I’m from West Texas…”

Black Friday madness, women fighting and scratching their way to sales deals, and my grandmother, West Texas tough, emerging a victor.

The implicit message was she enjoyed herself.

Apocryphal Tale of Grandmother

This is a fading memory, but I recall that toughness, that, “Scared? Whatever for? That’s fun!”

Should be some kind of redneck roots hashtag for this one.