THE SQUASH BLOSSOM NECKLACE
Her signature look was the kind of pumps you’d find in the '40s, low-heeled and classy, nude stockings, a skirt, a black turtleneck, and one of these incredible necklaces.
I was in third grade and my parents had divorced, and my mother and sister and our cat Wee Wee and I went to live with my mother’s parents in the mountains in Bailey, Colorado. We drove from Kansas City, Missouri, to their wood A-frame house they called the cabin. My sister and I had one bedroom, my grandparents had the other, and my mom had the little apartment over the garage. So we basically went from living with both our parents to living with neither of them and living with our grandparents instead.
It was the sticks. Dirt roads, and we had only a half day of school because the building was so small they had to rotate the kids. But I was very attached to Granny and Gramps. Gramps was retired, but Granny worked in medical records at a hospital in Denver. She set her alarm for 3:30 a.m. so she could drive down the mountain in time to be at work by 5:30. And then she’d be gone all day, and my mom was off at her job, too, so after our school day ended at noon Gramps would open a can of tomato soup or chicken noodle and we’d have that with a little half sandwich and wait for Granny to come home.
I don't remember seeing her in pants. Her signature look was the kind of pumps you’d find in the '40s, low-heeled and classy, nude stockings, a skirt, a black turtleneck, and one of these incredible necklaces. They were gigantic compared to her, and such a statement. The kind of thing some people would seem awkward wearing because it’s such an ethnic piece, but she pulled it off. That was her look, almost every day.
I’d call her at the hospital sometimes, and she’d answer “Medical records, this is Jeannette”; I imagined doctors calling for important information only she'd know where to find. And after a full day of this life-and-death work, she’d get home around 4:30 and start cooking—pork chops or meatloaf or a roast, mashed potatoes, broccoli—a full meal every night, after being up since 3:30. At 8 she’d do her pincurls, watching TV and pinning up her wet hair with her cat Dietrich on her lap. She’d hold the bobby pin in her mouth while she curled the hair around her finger, and somehow it looked so elegant. By 9 p.m. she was in bed.
My mother was a screamer, and Gramps lost his shit now and then, but Granny really didn't. The most fiery thing I ever heard her say was “Flip him the bird, Joe,” when we were driving and someone cut us off. I adored her. Everyone did. At their annual Christmas party, it seemed like the whole town showed up to laugh and talk and eat Granny's good food, including a crockpot full of delicious beanies and weenies, and ham roll-ups: cream cheese on a dill pickle spear, rolled in a slice of ham and finished with a toothpick. Those parties were so warm and lovely. Granny had a little laugh that made her whole face brighten in the most charming way.
She passed away too early. She must have been about 73, and she had dementia. It was tough. I’d call her and she’d say, “There are people in my apartment and they’re not talking to me, it’s so rude.” After she passed, when my mom asked what things of hers I wanted, I said the necklaces. Granny had kept them in plastic bags so the silver wouldn’t tarnish, so I took them in their bags and put them in my little safe in my apartment. And I’d wear one on occasion, but I never felt I could pull it off like she could. So now I just look at them every once in a great while.
She apparently bought much of her jewelry from the Santo Domingo and Zuni reservations when she lived in New Mexico, but my mom thinks this squash blossom necklace was purchased through a trader at a jewelry exhibition in Colorado. That's all I can tell you about its provenance. About my own provenance, I can tell you this: There are three people in the family named after my Granny, and I’m one of them. Most people know me as Anja, but my full name is Anne-Jeannette.
—Anja Wood
