"Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story."
~Tim O'Brien, "The Things They Carried"
I can remember attending my great-grandfather's funeral. I was only 5. I remember that it was at the small country church up the gravel road from our house. Like you would imagine a one-room school house, it had a vestibule and one small sanctuary room, the far end elevated a step and accommodating a piano and pulpit. I walked there, with a relative, (I think my aunt), not my parents. I remember standing in the pew to sing, a man in a white suit, and looking in the casket at my paternal grandmother's father. He and my great-grandmother Cox had lived down the road from us in an old farmhouse. I remember visiting them, and I think, walking around in their yard and looking at their flowers (later note-my mother confirms that while the other grandkids didn't spend much time with him due to his hearing loss, he used to carry me around in the yard and talk to me). My mom has a picture of me with the two of them, taken in their kitchen, held in my grandfather's arms. They look proud and enthralled by the energy and whimsy that can only come from a little girl who is well loved.
I remember Grandad Cox sitting on the concrete front porch of my grandparent's farm house in his rocking chair with the wide flat armrests while we all sat in various chairs or on the cool concrete as we grew sleepy after Sunday dinner and sought out a cool spot after the residual heat from the kitchen leaked through the rest of the house. My great-grandmother would be around for many more years, living to be 98 years old. She died shortly after I was married, having spent her last years alternating monthly between living at my grandmother's and her sister's house. She was mostly unable to care for herself at the end, and so hard of hearing that time spent there left you exhausted from speaking loudly all afternoon so as to include her in the conversations. But, we did it, uncomplaining. Where I grew up, you showed respect to your elders--you honored them.
I remember very little else about my great-grandfather. I learned years later that he had not allowed his daughters to learn to drive, but that they waited until he went off to work, then taught themselves. My grandmother worked at a cafe in town when she was only 18, supposedly without him even knowing it.
My grandparents are both still living alone, "in town"(they sold the farm house only a few years ago). They are only able to do this because my dad and mom take care of them, checking on them every day. Some days dad takes Grandad Douglas to the local restaurant to visit, but most days now he's not up for it. He recently renewed his drivers liscence. After driving to the nearby town and taking the test, Grandmother had to drive him home-he was too tired. He doesn't really drive anymore. He is 99 years old after all. It's a "I am still a grown man" kind of statement. Grandmother turns 90 in July, and I'm sure she will fight to keep her independence, when he is gone--the same determined spirit she had when she was young still peeking through, even as she seems to emotionally hang on my father more and more. Having spent so many years caring for her own frail and demanding mother in her last years, she will not give up easily to being cared for in the daily routine things.
I am going to visit them in a couple of weeks. Getting a little older tends to make you take stock more often of how "you got from where you were to where you are", and there are times I see their life patterns imprinted in mine. How sad it is that we usually know so little of the truth and the real stories of our grandparent's lives. It should remind us to ask better questions of our own parents and grandparents that are still living. We should ask them to share their stories. We may be surprised at what they remember.
~Tim O'Brien, "The Things They Carried"
I can remember attending my great-grandfather's funeral. I was only 5. I remember that it was at the small country church up the gravel road from our house. Like you would imagine a one-room school house, it had a vestibule and one small sanctuary room, the far end elevated a step and accommodating a piano and pulpit. I walked there, with a relative, (I think my aunt), not my parents. I remember standing in the pew to sing, a man in a white suit, and looking in the casket at my paternal grandmother's father. He and my great-grandmother Cox had lived down the road from us in an old farmhouse. I remember visiting them, and I think, walking around in their yard and looking at their flowers (later note-my mother confirms that while the other grandkids didn't spend much time with him due to his hearing loss, he used to carry me around in the yard and talk to me). My mom has a picture of me with the two of them, taken in their kitchen, held in my grandfather's arms. They look proud and enthralled by the energy and whimsy that can only come from a little girl who is well loved.
I remember Grandad Cox sitting on the concrete front porch of my grandparent's farm house in his rocking chair with the wide flat armrests while we all sat in various chairs or on the cool concrete as we grew sleepy after Sunday dinner and sought out a cool spot after the residual heat from the kitchen leaked through the rest of the house. My great-grandmother would be around for many more years, living to be 98 years old. She died shortly after I was married, having spent her last years alternating monthly between living at my grandmother's and her sister's house. She was mostly unable to care for herself at the end, and so hard of hearing that time spent there left you exhausted from speaking loudly all afternoon so as to include her in the conversations. But, we did it, uncomplaining. Where I grew up, you showed respect to your elders--you honored them.
I remember very little else about my great-grandfather. I learned years later that he had not allowed his daughters to learn to drive, but that they waited until he went off to work, then taught themselves. My grandmother worked at a cafe in town when she was only 18, supposedly without him even knowing it.
My grandparents are both still living alone, "in town"(they sold the farm house only a few years ago). They are only able to do this because my dad and mom take care of them, checking on them every day. Some days dad takes Grandad Douglas to the local restaurant to visit, but most days now he's not up for it. He recently renewed his drivers liscence. After driving to the nearby town and taking the test, Grandmother had to drive him home-he was too tired. He doesn't really drive anymore. He is 99 years old after all. It's a "I am still a grown man" kind of statement. Grandmother turns 90 in July, and I'm sure she will fight to keep her independence, when he is gone--the same determined spirit she had when she was young still peeking through, even as she seems to emotionally hang on my father more and more. Having spent so many years caring for her own frail and demanding mother in her last years, she will not give up easily to being cared for in the daily routine things.
I am going to visit them in a couple of weeks. Getting a little older tends to make you take stock more often of how "you got from where you were to where you are", and there are times I see their life patterns imprinted in mine. How sad it is that we usually know so little of the truth and the real stories of our grandparent's lives. It should remind us to ask better questions of our own parents and grandparents that are still living. We should ask them to share their stories. We may be surprised at what they remember.
Posts
3 comments:
What a timely post! Yesterday, with my Mother over for Mother's Day, we were talking about her Mother. Though I am 38, I just discovered that my Grandmother had been married to a guy named Luke for about two years, lived in California, and married my Grandfather when he returned from the war (apparently she'd wanted to marry him before he left, but he wouldn't--so she married the other guy out of spite)! It blows my mind to think that I could "know" my Grandma, but not know this. Thanks for the thoughts.
I remember talking to my Grandma about her first couple jobs. One was working in a candy store. She was talking about how expensive candy is compared to a nickel back then. She passed away eight years ago. I don't know why I remember that story, but it makes me smile knowing that we talked about little things like that.
That's what I keep saying! We need to make a book, or a multi-media presentation or something, and interview all of our parents and grandparents! The cover can be that picture of the three angry old people with the birthday cake.
Post a Comment