My grandmother and me.

I cannot recall the day I first met my maternal grandmother. She was probably present at my birth. I only know we always got along very well together. My paternal grandmother lived in the general vicinity, but she preferred not to become too involved in either my emotional welfare or my upbringing. She probably had more than enough problems of her own, and obviously did not feel the immediate need to welcome any more intrusions in her already complicated life. In any case, she kept a strict distance and, her body language did this for reasons known only to herself.

My maternal grandmother was a warm tranquil giant of a woman. Whenever she came on her annual visit from the neighboring island of St. Lucia, she always brought goodies. There were always delicious treats for the children as well as specialties for the adults in the family.

Her normal manner of attire was that of a traditional Creole Madam. She wore beautifully made full length dresses in pastel colors with attractive drapes of the extended skirts at the rear. This excess she carried over her left arm as she walked with quiet dignity, head held high. Her wonderful lacy embroidered cotton lawn petticoats were threaded with rows of pastel ribbons to match her dresses. It seemed very feminine indeed.

Her colorful African type head wraps, the large patterned shawls which she wore around her shoulders kept in place with a golden brooch, and her large golden earrings, made me extremely proud to be associated and be seen with her. There are some dolls still being sold in the islands in that traditional garb as part of the cultural history, especially the islands with a French background.

Grandmother seemed so tall and stately, and moved with such composure, that I too felt the irresistible urge to walk as tall as she did whenever I accompanied her to church, or for her many short walks on the esplanade. on her welcomed visits. Those forays I never missed. I was bursting at the seams with pride at being in her company, and often felt pity for those who didn't have such a magnificent relative in their own family. Grandmother rarely went anywhere else. She knew no one on the island, except my parents and a few others from her hometown, original natives of St. Lucia who had also chosen to make Barbados their home. She was not a very outgoing person. Most of the people she knew were old friends, tried and true.

My Gran was a shelter in the storm for me whenever I got into trouble, which was frequent. I would run to her, wrap myself in her voluminous skirts, and ask her to plead my cause. It was a perfect hiding place for me since no one dared challenge my grandmother's authority where her skirts were concerned. While I was safely ensconced in hiding, she'd calmly plead with my mother for leniency on my behalf.

Grandmother smoked fat, dark-looking cigars. Every weekend my dad would bring her a gift of a fat cigar and some tobacco for her pipe as well. The cigars smelled good enough to eat and looked just as good. They had a sweet, clean aroma like that of cherries and molasses... I liked the smell. She alternately smoked a pipe, with much flair and style. I often sat and watched her enjoy smoking tobacco in this shapely, shiny, beautiful, brown and black pipe, which carried intricately carved designs on its bowl. We'd often keep a lively conversation going as she did so.

Grandmother was my idol. I never wanted to let her out of my sight for any length of time while I was at home. In retrospect, I must have been like a little parasite, since I tended to follow everywhere she went, with some reservations of course. She knew so much and I wanted to hear everything she could recall, even way back in her childhood, when she talked in that soft gentle voice of hers, with that wonderful French accent.

On weekends and when I was not attending school, I sat by her side and listened eagerly as she repeated limitless stories, all with a moral at the end. Each interesting story invariably concluded with accepted modes of behavior, tips on etiquette, consideration for others, and good posture.

There came a time when she did not return to St. Lucia as usual, but stayed with us permanently. I was in my seventh heaven. At that time I wasn't aware of her condition, or the reason for her decision to remain with us on a permanent basis.

She was terminally ill. Children are not usually made privy to these pertinent facts by professed 'well meaning' adults.

I watched as she grew weaker daily. She was not bedridden for quite a while. Though she seemed in much pain, she appeared to bear it stoically. Worst of all, she was no longer able to go to church or for short walks. It was too tiring for her. This was a great disappointment to me.

As her discomfort progressed and her condition worsened, determined looking and unfamiliar individuals came to the house to pay her visits, or frequently to administer herbal remedies in the hope of helping her relieve her pain, or affecting a cure, all this with no apparent success. One day, while trying to go outside in the backyard as she usually did, my grandmother tripped and almost fell. Witnessing this near mishap put a terrible scare in my mother who always remembered her mother as a woman celebrated for her physical strength. Her condition demanded respect and it was magnified because she tempered it with a sense of exquisite quietude, a trait which I inherited. (The strength portion, I mean).

That particular incident caused my mother much anxiety, which is natural to her. My mother worried easily.

Grandmother's episodes of pain seemed to increase. It appeared to be concentrated in her upper shoulder and back area, so other herbal mendicants were consulted whose specialty was leech therapy. Being always inquisitive, I was determined to be present at the proceedings, and my mother allowed me to observe as long as I didn't get in the way of the busy adults.

Curiously, I peered into the large bottle on the floor. Quietly lying at the bottom of a large glass container were about five or six large, black leeches, with yellow undersides. I had never seen such creatures at close quarters before. They looked mean and ready for business. I was glad I didn't have to touch the evil-looking creatures.

I watched intently as the surrounding skin on her shoulders was carefully prepared before the therapy was employed. Then the leeches were applied to the shoulder area and allowed to do their work until they fell off, twice their original size or removed by sprinkling salt on their backs.

To my persistent queries, my mother responded. It was a foolproof sign that the treatment was in vain if all the leeches died. If, on the other hand, the leeches survived, then grandmother would experience a full recovery with no side effects.

In spite of that drastic treatment, her condition deteriorated, and my mother's search for some form of relief for grandma's extreme discomfort continued. A few days later, mother was somberly given the bad news by the therapist. The leeches had all died. Once grandmother learned the fate of the leeches, she began to make preparations for her death. She discussed details about the color, style and fabric of her shroud, the favorite hymns she'd like to be sung at her funeral, and where she was to be buried.

I overheard all the planning details because I was never far from her side. Nevertheless, I stubbornly refused to believe she was about to die, and I strongly felt both she and the other adults were being unnecessarily disquieted.

Grandmother knew a lot about these things very well anyway. Having dealt with herbal medicines all of her life, she had no illusions about the outcome of her illness. She just accepted the outcome peacefully and with serene composure. I once asked if she was afraid. She quietly replied that she was not because it was her time.

In the meanwhile, I still tried to spend as much time as I possibly could with her as she was now confined to bed most of the time. As a child, I hated being in bed for any reason. Bed for me, was a very lonely place, and I guessed how she must have felt.

One morning my mother disclosed that grandmother had a dream in which she was advised that to achieve relief from the intractable pain she should obtain seven live baby spiders daily. These were to be steamed in fresh milk every morning and she should drink the cooled milk after the items had been strained out of the liquid.

My heart was bleeding ... I was seven years old ... Even so, I delegated myself the sole responsibility for the task of retrieving the tiny creatures. Every day, first thing in the morning, without being reminded, my special mission was to find seven spiders before I left to go to school. I'd patiently search the crevices in the limestone wall around our house, breaking open the tiny mature egg cases for the potential medication to be used in my grandmother's treatment. I dearly hoped for a miracle that she would be cured, even though she pointed out to me that it was only for pain relief. Since time in a child's life is either interminable or instantaneous, I stayed at her side to the very end when she took her last breath in the presence of my mother and myself.

My whole world seemed to have collapsed following her death and for many days after the incident. I wandered around the house aimlessly. I was in disbelief and was in a dazed existence, silently and deeply mourning her passing. I felt deserted and developed a deep and immediate resentment and sense of malice against anyone whose grandmother dared to still be alive and healthy.

Fortunately, time eventually heals all wounds and life goes on. My initial bitterness at her death eventually faded. Though it was quite a while before I finally accepted her departure without feelings of resentment.

I never forgot the role those tiny spiders played in helping to relieve my grandmothers suffering. In her memory, as a mark of appreciation to the spirit of the spiders who lost their lives in order to help her, I vowed that I would never again as long as I lived, deliberately, willingly or wantonly, kill any creature in the spider genus. This has been a promise I have unfailingly kept, regardless of circumstances, no matter what type or size or nature of spiders I have so far encountered to this date.

Palmyra M. Williams, a native of Barbados, lived and studied in England for ten years. She is a Canadian citizen for the past thirty years. A registered nurse by training, she writes non-fiction and poetry. She is a music teacher, an organist and enjoys choral singing. She has many other talents which range from woodworking to swimming.