Two
institutions of my young life are inextricably linked--the Ladies Home Journal and my grandmother. Together they shaped my
understanding of the world and guided me through rough times. So, the
announcement that the magazine would end monthly publication has hit me hard.
As my marriage ended, I often reflected on the advice I had gleaned from the LHJ column, “Can this marriage be
saved?” and realized that in contrast to the happy endings portrayed in those
pages, sometimes the answer was, “No.”
To
me, my grandmother seemed eternal and unchanging, as if one day she had
appeared, fully formed, in her kitchen and would stay rooted there
forever. Around her there swirled the scent of cinnamon and yeast,
reminiscent of apple pies and freshly baked bread. A bird book stayed by the
kitchen window, a crossword puzzle lay on the day bed on the sun porch, a bag
of needlework by her living room chair.
Standing by the old wringer washer in the basement, in her faded blue house
dress, white anklets peeking over shoes bulging with bunions, there was nothing
pointy about her. Warning us never to stick our fingers in there, we
would watch her spotted hands pull at the heavy wet sheets as they ran through
the wringer. Her gray hair curled around her wrinkled face while she wrestled
the laundry basket up the stairs and out to the lines crossing between the
apple and elm trees. Sitting in the grass, handing her clothespins, we would
search for four leaf clovers that she would carefully press between the
yellowed and stained pages of her biggest cookbook.
I had
seven brothers and sisters and our house was often loud and chaotic. In
contrast, my grandmother's house next door seemed an island of calm. For years
we didn't own a television, and for many years only a black and white set. On
Sunday evenings my two older sisters and I, the "big girls," would
walk across the lawn to watch The
Wonderful World of Disney, in color, with my grandparents while my mother put
the "little kids" to bed.
Walking
through the back door we would follow the scent of our Grandfather’s pipe
tobacco to the living room where our grandparents sat, each quietly busy with
their own activities. Grandma’s rules were followed without question or
complaint and heeding her command not to sit any closer or we’d ruin our eyes,
we took our spots on the rug just behind an imaginary line drawn from the hall
door across the room. Any cares or
concerns we brought with us were vanquished as Tinkerbell’s swirls of color
appeared on the screen.
We
didn’t rush home when the program ended, but climbed onto couches and chairs,
picked up a magazine and leafed through the pages of recipes, advice, stories,
and decorating tips. Many of my ideas of
adulthood were formed in those quiet evenings devouring the pages of Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens, Redbook,
and Ladies Home Journal.
I was
especially taken with the column, “Can this marriage be saved?” Reading the personal and intimate details of married
life I imagined a future spouse and the careful and considerate way we would
address our conflicts. I marveled at the
selfishness, callousness, and downright bad behavior of married men and women. But, I was comforted by the fact that there
were happy endings to all of the stories.
The wise counselor would trace the root causes back to dynamics in the
family of origin, and the bright light of knowledge would shine. Thus
enlightened a couple would conquer their differences and emerge stronger than
ever. Curled on Grandma’s couch, life seemed simple and safe.
When
it was time to close the magazine, Grandma walked us to the backdoor and turned
on the outside light, watching as we would run through the dark, across the
lawn back to the safety of our own backdoor light. Walking into the house we would switch off
our light and look across the lawn to see her light blink off, too. Time for everyone to go to bed.
