I couldn’t quite figure out how to work this story into the earlier post, but I had to share the story.
My grandmother might just be my hero. It’s not uncommon to hear people refer to 80 year old women as “pistols” or “spitfires,” but I’m sure that these words were truly only meant to describe her. As an octogenarian, she stays up to 3am to watch Jerry Springer. This is where she learned the word “dominatrix.” I then had to witness her teach it to my mother just about a year ago. She also makes sure she is up by 11 to watch “The Price is Right” and take her mornin’ medicine.
She grew up in a coal mining camp in Harlan County and certainly knows the meaning of hard times. However, she’s the most upbeat and constantly positive person I know. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard her say anything terribly negative, including when my grandfather, her husband of 50 years, died.
She’s as unique as her name. Her name is Vittidene. She goes by Vitt for short. I’ve been told any number of stories about where her name came from and I’m not sure that I completely believe any of them. All I know is that when she ended up having a surprise twin sister (because, c’mon this was 1930), having already decided upon Vittidene, they named her younger twin Zittidene.
I tell this much about my wonderful grandmother to tell you the story of her Christmas phrase. Vitt is prone to throwing around the 4 letter word. One of our favorite family stories is of her calling her only son a “son of a bitch” and his response of, “you would know; you’re my mom”. Her word selection is usually limited to a “dammit” or “well, hell far.” You'll have to use your Southeast Kentucky accent to get that means “fire”. She will always refer to the wasps that appear in the summer as “little bastards” when they start trying to get in her hummingbird feeder. Vitt will never drop an f-bomb. In 30 years, I’ve never heard it. Though this year, Vitt has decided her Christmas phrase is “fuck it”.
This all started when she got frustrated with my aunt. My aunt keeps a deep freeze at my grandmother’s house. She’d called two nights in a row and asked Vitt to get some items out for her to come by and pick up. However, being maybe 5 feet tall, 80 years old and unable to handle cold very well, rummaging shoulder deep in a freezer while on her tippy-toes was not her idea of a fun evening. Apparently, it wasn’t terribly productive either.
She informed me that she had stacked a few things she’d already sorted through on one side of the freezer. She’d been digging around for over 10 minutes and getting more and more frustrated the more she dug. She was cold. My aunt should really be doing this herself. Why did she need to keep so much damned shit anyway? Then, the previously sorted stack fell over, spilling everything she’d already looked through and scattering it across the deep freeze. It was then that she yelled, “Fuck it! Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!” In her telling and my uncle’s eyewitness account, she stood there shouting that phrase for the better part of a minute. My uncle, both shocked and amused looked on while the search for a certain Schwan’s frozen food item came to a halt.
When my grandmother was telling me this story, she concluded it with “I’ve decided that’s my Christmas phrase. Fuck it. If I feel like bein’ good, I might say frig it.” And I have to say, I kind of like that as a Christmas phrase. There’s something kind of liberating about saying “fuck it” to the Christmas mess. Yes, I’ll participate and go to the parties and hang out with the family. I’ll even enjoy it. But, the second I feel frustrated by little arguments, traffic or oddly shaped presents I can’t wrap, I’m saying “fuck it” and not letting it get to me. It’s Christmas and we’re supposed to be happy and enjoying the most wonderful time of the year. Plus, as a wise woman recently told me, “it’s been too damned cold outside to have to spend your time inside digging through a friggin’ deep freeze”.
Again, Merry Christmas.
Love,
Jupe
