Krazy Kat
When I was about nine, I went on an airplane trip by myself for the first time ever.
I didn’t really want to go; the trip was planned by my parents. I flew to Nevada, to visit my grandparents. I didn’t feel like a Big Man on the airplane by myself; I was mostly scared about having to stay with my relatives for two weeks. My family is not really close to its relatives.
On my mother’s side, there were Grandpa Charlie and Clevie Grandma. I liked them a lot. They lived in Fernley, Nevada--they’re both dead now--in a very small Ranch-style home that was right on the edge of the desert. If you walked out my mother’s childhood front door and went left, you ran into sagebrush and sand dunes and abandoned train tracks. There was no shade, because there were no trees.
If you walked to the right, there was an overly wide road, my grandfather’s electrical business, and a main street with some stores on it. I remember going into the single restaurant there once with my parents and my grandfather--they all knew him there--and getting my first chili dog, which I ordered because Grandpa Charlie kind of ordered me to.
Grandpa Charlie was the kind of guy who’d tell you to punch him in the stomach. And you’d hurt your hand, because his fat stomach was vulcanized.
On my father’s side, there was Pink Grandma. We called her this because she was wearing pink the first time my sister met her. Pink Grandma likes the name, and uses it. This is the grandmother I talked about earlier who is in the hospital, and she’s my last remaining grandparent. She seems to be doing fine, by the way.
Pink Grandma lives in Reno, in a very small Ranch-style home, just like Clevie Grandma did, only her neighborhood is more residential, and hilly. Her house is very dark, and because my dad’s father was in Japan during World War Two, there are some scary Japanese masks on the wood-panelled walls. Terrifying masks, especially to a little kid.
I’ve been told that I really got along well with my dad’s father--his name was Robert--but I don’t remember it that way. I mostly remember those masks. Grandpa Bobby died when I was eight. I remember it because my dad told me right before it happened that this was the only time in my life that I would be twice as old as my little brother.
I’ve been told that I loved it when I was four or five when Grandpa Bobby did “Motorboat” to me. “Motorboat” was Grandpa Bobby gently pounding on my back with the balls of his fists as I made a long “Uhhhh” sound. It apparently put me to sleep many times, but those masks are all I really remember about interacting with my dad’s father.
When my last grandmother dies, I want those masks.
Pink Grandma--not to speak unkindly of her--was a different story. She had some kind of disease in the seventies that required the removal of her vocal cords, so she always talked in this really scratchy voice. Because the three of us kids in my family were sort of afraid of her (her intense ability to notice and point out another person’s weaknesses or fallibilities is a trait passed down to us, which we’re all trying to avoid, every day), my sister and brother and I were all completely terrified to answer the telephone on Christmas or on my dad’s birthday.
We avoided it, mostly. But there was always that one phone call, and it went like this:
The phone rings. My brother and sister both bolt out of the room; they know what’s happening. It’s like a game of “not it”. I have to answer the phone, and I answer the phone in the way that kids had to answer the phone in my parents’ house when we were growing up.
“Hello, this is John.”
(EXTREMELY SCRATCHY VOICE, LIKE THE RUSTLING OF DEAD LEAVES): Hi.
(Pretending to be happy to hear from her) “Hi, Pink Grandma!”
(EXTREMELY SCRATCHY VOICE, LIKE THE RUSTLING OF DEAD LEAVES): How’d you know it was me?
...
Imagine being nine years old and trying to respond to this question. I didn’t know how to do it. My brother and sister didn’t know how to deal with it. I could call my sister right now and get a big, uncomfortable laugh with this routine. As a little kid, this was the scariest thing in the world, and it happened every time she called.
When I was sent on that airplane trip, I had to visit Pink Grandma first. I was going to spend one week with her, then one week with my other (nicer) grandmother. I didn’t want to go, and I didn’t understand at all why I had to. I didn’t complain; I didn’t know how.
But. There was one amazing and wonderful thing about visiting Pink Grandma: Krazy Kat.
Every time that I’d visited her before with my parents, I’d found this book, this hardcover red book. Krazy Kat, by George Herriman. An inscription in the front:
For Bob from Kat-hy 1971
I was obsessed with this book, and when I visited Pink Grandma, I spent most of my time reading it, laying on what a million years ago was my father’s bed.
Krazy Kat was my first comic, and I’m completely imprinted on it. I learned how to draw by copying Krazy Kat comics. I love Krazy Kat so much that Chris Ware’s editing of Krazy Kat gives me extremely mixed emotions: on one hand, Krazy Kat is getting the attention it deserves; on the other, I want Krazy Kat all to myself. Krazy Kat is extremely precious to me, as precious as my real cat is.
I now own that red hardcover book that I used to read at Pink Grandma’s house; she gave it to me for my birthday years ago. There’s an inscription under the one to my grandfather:
To John C from ‘Pink Grandma’
March 6 1987 Katherine Ralston
I didn’t really want to go; the trip was planned by my parents. I flew to Nevada, to visit my grandparents. I didn’t feel like a Big Man on the airplane by myself; I was mostly scared about having to stay with my relatives for two weeks. My family is not really close to its relatives.
On my mother’s side, there were Grandpa Charlie and Clevie Grandma. I liked them a lot. They lived in Fernley, Nevada--they’re both dead now--in a very small Ranch-style home that was right on the edge of the desert. If you walked out my mother’s childhood front door and went left, you ran into sagebrush and sand dunes and abandoned train tracks. There was no shade, because there were no trees.
If you walked to the right, there was an overly wide road, my grandfather’s electrical business, and a main street with some stores on it. I remember going into the single restaurant there once with my parents and my grandfather--they all knew him there--and getting my first chili dog, which I ordered because Grandpa Charlie kind of ordered me to.
Grandpa Charlie was the kind of guy who’d tell you to punch him in the stomach. And you’d hurt your hand, because his fat stomach was vulcanized.
On my father’s side, there was Pink Grandma. We called her this because she was wearing pink the first time my sister met her. Pink Grandma likes the name, and uses it. This is the grandmother I talked about earlier who is in the hospital, and she’s my last remaining grandparent. She seems to be doing fine, by the way.
Pink Grandma lives in Reno, in a very small Ranch-style home, just like Clevie Grandma did, only her neighborhood is more residential, and hilly. Her house is very dark, and because my dad’s father was in Japan during World War Two, there are some scary Japanese masks on the wood-panelled walls. Terrifying masks, especially to a little kid.
I’ve been told that I really got along well with my dad’s father--his name was Robert--but I don’t remember it that way. I mostly remember those masks. Grandpa Bobby died when I was eight. I remember it because my dad told me right before it happened that this was the only time in my life that I would be twice as old as my little brother.
I’ve been told that I loved it when I was four or five when Grandpa Bobby did “Motorboat” to me. “Motorboat” was Grandpa Bobby gently pounding on my back with the balls of his fists as I made a long “Uhhhh” sound. It apparently put me to sleep many times, but those masks are all I really remember about interacting with my dad’s father.
When my last grandmother dies, I want those masks.
Pink Grandma--not to speak unkindly of her--was a different story. She had some kind of disease in the seventies that required the removal of her vocal cords, so she always talked in this really scratchy voice. Because the three of us kids in my family were sort of afraid of her (her intense ability to notice and point out another person’s weaknesses or fallibilities is a trait passed down to us, which we’re all trying to avoid, every day), my sister and brother and I were all completely terrified to answer the telephone on Christmas or on my dad’s birthday.
We avoided it, mostly. But there was always that one phone call, and it went like this:
The phone rings. My brother and sister both bolt out of the room; they know what’s happening. It’s like a game of “not it”. I have to answer the phone, and I answer the phone in the way that kids had to answer the phone in my parents’ house when we were growing up.
“Hello, this is John.”
(EXTREMELY SCRATCHY VOICE, LIKE THE RUSTLING OF DEAD LEAVES): Hi.
(Pretending to be happy to hear from her) “Hi, Pink Grandma!”
(EXTREMELY SCRATCHY VOICE, LIKE THE RUSTLING OF DEAD LEAVES): How’d you know it was me?
...
Imagine being nine years old and trying to respond to this question. I didn’t know how to do it. My brother and sister didn’t know how to deal with it. I could call my sister right now and get a big, uncomfortable laugh with this routine. As a little kid, this was the scariest thing in the world, and it happened every time she called.
When I was sent on that airplane trip, I had to visit Pink Grandma first. I was going to spend one week with her, then one week with my other (nicer) grandmother. I didn’t want to go, and I didn’t understand at all why I had to. I didn’t complain; I didn’t know how.
But. There was one amazing and wonderful thing about visiting Pink Grandma: Krazy Kat.
Every time that I’d visited her before with my parents, I’d found this book, this hardcover red book. Krazy Kat, by George Herriman. An inscription in the front:
For Bob from Kat-hy 1971
I was obsessed with this book, and when I visited Pink Grandma, I spent most of my time reading it, laying on what a million years ago was my father’s bed.
Krazy Kat was my first comic, and I’m completely imprinted on it. I learned how to draw by copying Krazy Kat comics. I love Krazy Kat so much that Chris Ware’s editing of Krazy Kat gives me extremely mixed emotions: on one hand, Krazy Kat is getting the attention it deserves; on the other, I want Krazy Kat all to myself. Krazy Kat is extremely precious to me, as precious as my real cat is.
I now own that red hardcover book that I used to read at Pink Grandma’s house; she gave it to me for my birthday years ago. There’s an inscription under the one to my grandfather:
To John C from ‘Pink Grandma’
March 6 1987 Katherine Ralston
posted by interrobang at
1:35 AM
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