Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmother, probably because I am getting close to her age. She always seemed ancient, old-fashioned, and not much fun. She was a worrier, the kind of grandmother who made me hold her hand to cross the street—at twelve years old.
But she was also sprightly, deeply concerned about world events, and a great cook who made pies and bread from scratch. She loved her camera. I have her album of photos taken in the early 1900’s; my favorite shows her standing on top of a flagpole. She loved to people-watch, and living in New York, then San Francisco gave her plenty of “characters” to watch. She was a career woman at a time when a woman’s sole place was in the home. One of my earliest memories is visiting Grandma’s workplace and noticing her obvious happiness there and affectionate relationship with her co-workers.
She came over from Russia at only six months of age. Her earliest memory was of being bundled up in the middle of the night and rushed outdoors because her tenement was on fire. Wrapped in a blanket clutching her “doll,” a bunch of rags, she watched her home burn down. A family portrait shows her at age three, standing at her father’s knee, staring at the camera defiantly. She looks like she could eat nails. It’s strange to connect that tough little girl with the frightened woman I knew.
I know she made an unhappy first marriage to a cold, abusive philanderer. Her second husband was likewise self-centered and lacking in warmth. Life revolved around placating them, worrying, trying to keep disaster away. Yet with each husband’s death, she moved, made a new life for herself. Two days before she died, age eighty, she visited Knott’s Berry Farm, sent my mom a postcard which arrived after the funeral.
So. Was she happy? Or did she spend her years like me, feeling like it’s all amiss, so caught up in worries and fears that life rushes past in an unhealthy blur? It seems a terrible waste. What was her life about then? More than anything, I feel, my grandma should have been happy.
My Decision
Musing on all this, I dedicate myself to living like I want her to have lived. By settling deep into the present moment, it can be done. Today I find joy in the rush of cold air on my hands as I wash them. The fading December light. Sitting at my laptop watching my husband in the warm kitchen as he prepares food for his friends.
It’s paying off. For the first time since I was eleven or twelve, I felt a sense of impossible happiness--excitement for the coming Christmas, the beautiful pale winter air, the jewel-like lights.
Let it be so. Amen.
1 comment:
These are great stories, most of which i've never heard. we'll have to devote a conversation to grandma sometime. What was her career anyway? I've no clue. Would absolutely love to see those pictures. Yes she was a worrier par excellance. Drove me nuts most of the time. She'd always be on you to see if you had everything you needed. I stayed with her once at the apt on Ocean St. She was starting to lose it and there was almost no food in the place. I remember Eli fondly though. He had a certain garrulous unspoken camaraderie with me. For years I had a good feeling being around cheap cigar smoke. I visited him in the hosp just before he died. He was actually affectionate to me. That's funny about the being in the present thing. Just since the summer I've become very aware of a need to try and keep myself in the Now as much as possible. A big change for me.
Hugs
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