Grandma

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.

Rocky and Jo

We got the news this week: My husband’s Uncle Rocky has dementia. Rocky came to our house for Thanksgiving, absolutely bereft because his mind no longer works. His daughter Jill said when they got in the car to come over, he kept trying to insert his seatbelt into the cigarette lighter. Poor Jill and Lance. They were already dealing with Aunt Jo’s dementia and now both their parents have it. Of that generation only my mom has all her marbles, as we say.

The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.

Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.

Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.

But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”

I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.

I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?

A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.

One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.

But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."

Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.

It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.