Some sights and sounds and words and music never lose their magic.
"Turn me and twist me and show me the elf.
I looked in the water and saw (myself)!"
If you remember saying these words,
you'll know where I'm coming from.
I once was a Brownie and young Girl Scout.
I still remember the ceremony when I received my golden Brownie pin and had to do a good deed to turn it right side up. I remember selling boxes of cookies. I remember walking from old Harmony School (no longer in existence) two blocks east to a church (also demolished) on the corner of 74th and West Main Street for our meetings. I remember the pride with which I wore my uniform to school and my anticipation in attending those weekly meetings.
I remember bringing home the crafts I'd made that my parents kept almost forever, like a wooden slat and shoe lace mail holder. I also remember a game of catch with a jack ball that got out of hand at another meeting when I got shoved face forward under a lunch table. That's when one of my new front teeth was severely damaged, and the beginning of my major dental problems began.
I still have my old Girl Scout Handbook, and I've noticed how the badges have progressively become less domestic and challenging, and have a considerably reduced number of requirements. Way back when, our program was more about service and practical skills than Beverly Hills fluff.
My early love for Scouting came rushing back when my oldest daughter first put on her Brownie uniform, and it stayed with me some 30 odd years later when we started a troop in Arizona that grew from 6 girls to 50 before we turned it back over to their parents. It was with me, the night I received my 50 year pin and the day I walked, with hundreds of bridging Scouts, across the Mill Street Bridge.
My enthusiasm for Scouting was there in the 70s when I became a co-leader for her troop, then leader for my middle daughter's troop. It was rampant while I learned and honed my skills along with the girls and other leaders.
It was there when I worked at day camp while I was pregnant with my youngest and just as strong when I came back the following year to work with all the girls during the day, and let my baby splash in a big metal washtub by the flag pole before heading home. She and I still regret that I wasn't able to be her troop leader as well.
I've loved all the opportunities Girl Scouts gave the four of us over the years, especially the numerous trips down to Camp Butterfly where all three of my girls were with me for a week or more at a stretch. One year we went down for three weeks in a row--individual troop camp, core camp, and we finished our stay with family camp. It was a summer we'll always remember!
The evening in between the departure of all the other Scouts and the arrival of the Scout families, my girls and I had the whole camp to ourselves for several hours.
The counselors had gone into town to blow off some steam after dinner. The girls and I went down to the lake. Some raccoons were washing and eating some mussels; birds were calling from the trees; mist was gathering over the water; the moon and stars were shining on us. The camp was suddenly so quiet it was as if we were all alone in the world, but not lonely because we were together.
The nicest thing about this kind of camping is that we had the benefit of a support staff of young, energetic, knowledgeable, well-trained counselors who helped us enjoy swimming, canoeing, sailing, horseback riding, hiking, repelling, archery, star gazing--you name it,
we learned and had a blast doing it.
I think the thing I enjoyed the most was spending mornings at the lakefront, coming up for lunch, singing grace, eating and then singing while each table washed up their dishes, and finally going back to our campsites for an hour to rest before the afternoon and evening activities began.
While I'm sure the rest period was as much for the counselors as it was for the campers, I found it one of the most peaceful times I'd ever experienced before or since.
The girls and I traveled to camp in our Honda Civic so we had to limit ourselves to bare necessities, even though I did have a camper shell clamped to the roof. That shell had to hold our four big duffle bags of clothes, mess kits, pillows and sleeping bags. To that I added sturdy, string hammocks about the size of my fist, a boom box that doubled as a cassette tape player and several tapes that contained music suitable for nap time.
My youngest quickly became fond of Chopin, Bach and Tchaikovsky, and sure enough, as soon as we lashed our hammocks to the trees next to our cabin and climbed into them, she'd ask me to play the "purple music." (Tchaikovsky's label happened to be purple!)
Everyone had an extra piece of rope tied to another tree so we didn't even have to put a foot on the ground to rock ourselves to sleep as we swung to and fro, listening to the breeze rustling the leaves overhead and the sweet sounds of classical music.
How many times do we go on vacation and rush here and there until we come home and need to "rest" up from our sojourn?
Not so when we came home from camp,
despite all our time in the sun and fresh air.
How many times do we rush through our day, doing all the extraneous duties we assign ourselves without taking time out for a quiet moment to recharge and listen to the beat of our own heart and the sound of our children growing up and away from us?
Too often, I think, and not nearly often enough.
My children's young lives passed by in the blink of an eye. Sadly I remember too little of them.
I let the pressures and stress of a family business and unhappy marriage take precedence over my paying attention to more important things like our day-to-day moments together.
I'd love for my children to follow my lead and write down the stories of their lives, now while they're still fresh in their minds. If they did,
I could relive those moments all over again;
this time through their eyes.
I cannot return to those important days and cherish them as I might have, but I do have today and I've turned a new page. Today I am building new memories, for them and for me.
I gather each good time we share like precious pearls on a string, one happy occasion after another.
I cannot ease or erase the sorrow or anger or disappointment we shared in the past. I can only step into a new beginning, a new way of loving and living in the moment.
I wake up each day, knowing we have one more chance for another purple music moment of peace and joy and love.
Our time together at camp was a welcome break from the chaos of our lives back home.
It was all the sweeter because we knew that in the shade of those trees we were happy and safe and filled with love for each other.
It was indeed the best time of our lives.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Just the Three of Us
From the time I was 13 months old until my own daughters were old enough for overnights at the local Girl Scout camps, I rarely slept away from home. One of my best childhood friends lived down in Dutch Hollow, just a few miles away from us, but every time we begged, pleaded and cajoled our parents into letting me stay all night with her, I'd have an asthma attack in the middle of the night and have to be taken home.
It was so aggravating. All day long we played like frisky puppies, my brothers and I, Judy Ann, her brother and sister, and their cousins from one house down. As soon as it got dark and the mist fell in the valley, it was all over for me. My breathing got labored, her parents panicked, and my parents would have to come back and get me. Sometimes I'd start to feel better as soon as the car left the lowlands, and other times I'd be sick all night and into the next day.
Imagine my delight, however; one monumental year in my childhood, when my mom and her sisters-in-law decided it would be a wonderful experience for their oldest daughters to have a vacation together at our Great-Aunt Gillie and Great-Uncle Frank's old farm in Carbondale.
The three of us were a year apart in age; I was in the middle, but outside of our family reunions at Thanksgiving, we had never spent much time together. I was around 10 or 12 when we went to this equivalent of a two-week summer camp; our hosts were very near their 70s. It was a match made in Heaven because all of us kids adored them and were on our best behavior when we were with them.
A high point of our trip was that we were being allowed to take the passenger train from Belleville to Carbondale without parental supervision! It was a two-hour journey with worried, weeping parents at one station and a calm, joyful aunt and uncle at the other stop.
We felt so grown-up traveling ALONE!
After a ridiculously expensive, long-distance phone call back home, lots of quarters when a local payphone call cost a nickel (keep in mind this was the 50s), to let our parents know that, yes, all three had stayed on the train the whole way and survived the trip safe and sound and fully intact, we were whisked off to the grocery store where we were asked what our favorite foods were! This was another big event to us; our moms just bought and fixed whatever they thought was good for us, but I don't think any of us had ever been consulted about our preferences before, at least I hadn't.
We also made a stop at the dry goods store, either that day or shortly thereafter, to pick up a few yards of material. Here, too, we were given a choice about the color and pattern of the yard goods. My cousin, Nancy, was in 4-H and her latest project was making a skirt with a matching shawl. Dear Aunt Gillie decided she would teach all of us how to sew; what a brave woman she was! She even taught us a kind of sign language since she couldn't wear her glasses and hearing aid at the same time while she was sewing.
I wish I had kept a journal about this visit. I had such a wonderful time.
Gillie gave us impromptu biology lessons when she picked vegetables and cleaned chickens for our dinner. Frank taught us animal husbandry when we helped him feed the chickens and cows, gather eggs and crank the cream separator after he milked his small herd, twice a day, every day. (He let us and Gillie sleep through the morning chores, though!)
We watched birds from the kitchen windows through the binoculars that were kept, next to the old cowbell, on top of the antique cupboard made from trees cut down on her grandparents' farm in Belleville. Then we'd look for their pictures in the big bird book she kept close at hand for us for us to use.
Throughout the day we'd be busy picking berries and grapes and roses, and dressing the kittens in doll clothes. In the evenings we'd read, or be read to, from our great-grandparents' novels, Erie Train Boy and Swiss Family Robinson, Tom Sawyer and Little Women, played Old Maid and Authors or picked threads loose from our frayed-edge shawls.
The days flew by,
each one as good or better than the last.
Despite all this, there were a few flies in the ointment of our bliss.
My cousin, Sherry, suffered from terrible homesickness. She'd never spent much time away from the rest of her family and cried for them every night.
My cousin, Nancy, was very unhappy about sharing her "special" time with Aunt Gillie, and took every opportunities that came her way to tease and torment Sherry and me.
It might have been on this visit when she turned the wooden peg that locked me in the big chicken coop, and then conveniently "forgot" where I was. Just for the record--chickens are mean. When the posse finally found me, I was pecked, crying my eyes out, almost hysterical, and I have eaten fried chicken in revenge ever since. To this day, I'd still rather stare down a snake than a chicken!
I don't know what I did to annoy them, but I'm sure if you asked them, my cousins could tell you tales about me, too. I certainly was no angel, but the one thing I did not do was have a single bout of asthma the whole time I was there!
Our idyllic sojourn came to an abrupt ending one night near the end of the second week when Nancy got sick. We all piled in the car and made a hasty trip to one of the nearby relatives because Aunt Gillie didn't own a thermometer. We arrived at this old, dark farmhouse and were led through rooms filled with stacks of newspapers and magazines and boxes of who-knows-what.
It was my first glimpse at hoarding.
Sure enough, my cousin was in a lot of pain and running a high fever. I don't know if it was her appendix or not, but it was pretty clear that she was very ill that night.
Another long-distance call had to be made to her parents, and mind you, not everyone had phones in their homes back then, especially in the country, but my family did. Her mom made the trip down there in under two hours, and made Sherry and me go home with her as well. So much for our return tickets for the train and the few remaining days of our country vacation.
For the most part, Sherry was relieved to come home to her family, and I stayed mad at Nancy for a long time for getting sick, not that she could help it. Overall, though, it had been a wonderful time, but one that was never repeated.
My cousin, Nancy, went home to Freeburg where she graduated high school, and then attended college in Carbondale and lived on the farm with Frank and Gillie while acquiring her teaching degree, as did her younger sister.
My family moved out of state soon after, and our visits down there became few and far between until we moved back home.
My other cousin's family eventually moved back and forth across the country as my uncle's Air Force career progressed. I don't know that any of her siblings were born in the same state, but none of them came back here to live or raise their families.
Many years later, when I had a family of my own, I made that trip down Highway 13 many, many times so my children could get to know the great-aunt and uncle I loved so much. I know my cousins and second cousins did the same thing.
There was something so special about that couple, their unusual love story and all they could teach us about life. I owe them for so many of my best memories, for their nurturing and encouragement, and for bringing out the good parts of who I am now.
Today when so many grandparents and great-aunts and uncles are too busy with their own lives, still work at 9-5 jobs and live in small homes or in retirement communities, children don't get these kinds of opportunities. They don't get to learn life lessons at the knees of their elders and hear stories they'll remember forever.
Aunt Gillie was the family mentor and historian. She sent each of her great-nieces and nephews books on our birthdays that reflected our interests and hers. From her we learned to love reading and games, and to observe and interact with nature. She taught us practical skills and how to use the talents we were born with. She told us stories about our family's history and antics, and taught us to be proud of who we were and who we could become.
Today the family is scattered to the four winds. It's been years since the last funeral that brought us all back to our hometown. It's a shame that's what it takes for us to reconnect.
I still remember the family reunions we had at their farms down in Carbondale, the house brimming with people of all ages, from Uncle Charles LeTempe who lived to be 104 or was it 106, to the tiniest, newborn baby. It was a house and a world and a family filled with sharing, happiness, and love.
All of those children are old enough to be grandparents now, and some are.
All are old enough to have been married, divorced, and remarried. Some are.
Some have had great joy.
Some have had great sorrow.
Some have been close to dying.
Some have lost children in tragic ways.
All have been loved.
Mine is a family that is a privilege to be part of.
I'm glad I'm part of them and
that they are a part of me.
It was so aggravating. All day long we played like frisky puppies, my brothers and I, Judy Ann, her brother and sister, and their cousins from one house down. As soon as it got dark and the mist fell in the valley, it was all over for me. My breathing got labored, her parents panicked, and my parents would have to come back and get me. Sometimes I'd start to feel better as soon as the car left the lowlands, and other times I'd be sick all night and into the next day.
Imagine my delight, however; one monumental year in my childhood, when my mom and her sisters-in-law decided it would be a wonderful experience for their oldest daughters to have a vacation together at our Great-Aunt Gillie and Great-Uncle Frank's old farm in Carbondale.
The three of us were a year apart in age; I was in the middle, but outside of our family reunions at Thanksgiving, we had never spent much time together. I was around 10 or 12 when we went to this equivalent of a two-week summer camp; our hosts were very near their 70s. It was a match made in Heaven because all of us kids adored them and were on our best behavior when we were with them.
A high point of our trip was that we were being allowed to take the passenger train from Belleville to Carbondale without parental supervision! It was a two-hour journey with worried, weeping parents at one station and a calm, joyful aunt and uncle at the other stop.
We felt so grown-up traveling ALONE!
After a ridiculously expensive, long-distance phone call back home, lots of quarters when a local payphone call cost a nickel (keep in mind this was the 50s), to let our parents know that, yes, all three had stayed on the train the whole way and survived the trip safe and sound and fully intact, we were whisked off to the grocery store where we were asked what our favorite foods were! This was another big event to us; our moms just bought and fixed whatever they thought was good for us, but I don't think any of us had ever been consulted about our preferences before, at least I hadn't.
We also made a stop at the dry goods store, either that day or shortly thereafter, to pick up a few yards of material. Here, too, we were given a choice about the color and pattern of the yard goods. My cousin, Nancy, was in 4-H and her latest project was making a skirt with a matching shawl. Dear Aunt Gillie decided she would teach all of us how to sew; what a brave woman she was! She even taught us a kind of sign language since she couldn't wear her glasses and hearing aid at the same time while she was sewing.
I wish I had kept a journal about this visit. I had such a wonderful time.
Gillie gave us impromptu biology lessons when she picked vegetables and cleaned chickens for our dinner. Frank taught us animal husbandry when we helped him feed the chickens and cows, gather eggs and crank the cream separator after he milked his small herd, twice a day, every day. (He let us and Gillie sleep through the morning chores, though!)
We watched birds from the kitchen windows through the binoculars that were kept, next to the old cowbell, on top of the antique cupboard made from trees cut down on her grandparents' farm in Belleville. Then we'd look for their pictures in the big bird book she kept close at hand for us for us to use.
Throughout the day we'd be busy picking berries and grapes and roses, and dressing the kittens in doll clothes. In the evenings we'd read, or be read to, from our great-grandparents' novels, Erie Train Boy and Swiss Family Robinson, Tom Sawyer and Little Women, played Old Maid and Authors or picked threads loose from our frayed-edge shawls.
The days flew by,
each one as good or better than the last.
Despite all this, there were a few flies in the ointment of our bliss.
My cousin, Sherry, suffered from terrible homesickness. She'd never spent much time away from the rest of her family and cried for them every night.
My cousin, Nancy, was very unhappy about sharing her "special" time with Aunt Gillie, and took every opportunities that came her way to tease and torment Sherry and me.
It might have been on this visit when she turned the wooden peg that locked me in the big chicken coop, and then conveniently "forgot" where I was. Just for the record--chickens are mean. When the posse finally found me, I was pecked, crying my eyes out, almost hysterical, and I have eaten fried chicken in revenge ever since. To this day, I'd still rather stare down a snake than a chicken!
I don't know what I did to annoy them, but I'm sure if you asked them, my cousins could tell you tales about me, too. I certainly was no angel, but the one thing I did not do was have a single bout of asthma the whole time I was there!
Our idyllic sojourn came to an abrupt ending one night near the end of the second week when Nancy got sick. We all piled in the car and made a hasty trip to one of the nearby relatives because Aunt Gillie didn't own a thermometer. We arrived at this old, dark farmhouse and were led through rooms filled with stacks of newspapers and magazines and boxes of who-knows-what.
It was my first glimpse at hoarding.
Sure enough, my cousin was in a lot of pain and running a high fever. I don't know if it was her appendix or not, but it was pretty clear that she was very ill that night.
Another long-distance call had to be made to her parents, and mind you, not everyone had phones in their homes back then, especially in the country, but my family did. Her mom made the trip down there in under two hours, and made Sherry and me go home with her as well. So much for our return tickets for the train and the few remaining days of our country vacation.
For the most part, Sherry was relieved to come home to her family, and I stayed mad at Nancy for a long time for getting sick, not that she could help it. Overall, though, it had been a wonderful time, but one that was never repeated.
My cousin, Nancy, went home to Freeburg where she graduated high school, and then attended college in Carbondale and lived on the farm with Frank and Gillie while acquiring her teaching degree, as did her younger sister.
My family moved out of state soon after, and our visits down there became few and far between until we moved back home.
My other cousin's family eventually moved back and forth across the country as my uncle's Air Force career progressed. I don't know that any of her siblings were born in the same state, but none of them came back here to live or raise their families.
Many years later, when I had a family of my own, I made that trip down Highway 13 many, many times so my children could get to know the great-aunt and uncle I loved so much. I know my cousins and second cousins did the same thing.
There was something so special about that couple, their unusual love story and all they could teach us about life. I owe them for so many of my best memories, for their nurturing and encouragement, and for bringing out the good parts of who I am now.
Today when so many grandparents and great-aunts and uncles are too busy with their own lives, still work at 9-5 jobs and live in small homes or in retirement communities, children don't get these kinds of opportunities. They don't get to learn life lessons at the knees of their elders and hear stories they'll remember forever.
Aunt Gillie was the family mentor and historian. She sent each of her great-nieces and nephews books on our birthdays that reflected our interests and hers. From her we learned to love reading and games, and to observe and interact with nature. She taught us practical skills and how to use the talents we were born with. She told us stories about our family's history and antics, and taught us to be proud of who we were and who we could become.
Today the family is scattered to the four winds. It's been years since the last funeral that brought us all back to our hometown. It's a shame that's what it takes for us to reconnect.
I still remember the family reunions we had at their farms down in Carbondale, the house brimming with people of all ages, from Uncle Charles LeTempe who lived to be 104 or was it 106, to the tiniest, newborn baby. It was a house and a world and a family filled with sharing, happiness, and love.
All of those children are old enough to be grandparents now, and some are.
All are old enough to have been married, divorced, and remarried. Some are.
Some have had great joy.
Some have had great sorrow.
Some have been close to dying.
Some have lost children in tragic ways.
All have been loved.
Mine is a family that is a privilege to be part of.
I'm glad I'm part of them and
that they are a part of me.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Across the Ages
I knew my dad's mother was rich for a number of reasons.
She had two houses, one in our hometown and a vacation home in Florida, and two Lincoln Towncars, all paid for, free and clear.
She had beautiful furniture for the home in town that she occasionally passed onto us whenever she redecorated.
She had a big, wooden cutting board that smelled like ham when it wasn't even a holiday, and she bought small packs of devil's food cake cookies, instead of the bargain cookies we had at my house--you know the ones with three rows of chocolate or vanilla sandwich cookies--and she handed out her cookies sparingly like the coveted treasures they were.
I knew she was rich because she had diamonds flashing on her fingers and wore real furs. She played Bridge with fancy friends and attended functions at the Country Club.
I knew she went shopping in some of the best stores in St. Louis to buy lovely clothes and other things for herself, and I knew she didn't love my mother's children because she rarely shared any of the good things she had with us.
My grandmother took good care of the things she loved, and she didn't take care of us.
I've often imagined how life would have been different if my mother's mother hadn't died at such a young age, almost as often as I've wondered how it would have been if Mom hadn't died likewise.
I imagine that grandma making us dolls out of peg clothespins, with a penciled in face and maybe a string and a rag for a dress.
She would have had us stand on a chair next her by the stove and showed us how she made biscuits and gravy for breakfast.
We would have enjoyed Kool-Aid and a piece of butter bread with sugar on top at her table.
She would have sung us to sleep with a funny old song her mother had sung to her.
She would have cried at our weddings, and been there to help and advise us when we had children of our own.
She would have been poor in material things, but rich in heart and spirit.
She would have given things money can't buy.
This is the granny I never had.
I imagine going to Arkansas to visit her and grandpa with my parents.
She'd have my aunt and as many of my eight uncles and their families as could make it home for a big, holiday celebration.
She'd fuss when all the grandkids would pile into her tiny house and swarmed her for hugs and kisses. "How'd you think I can feed this hungry mob?" she'd ask, but we'd all know how much she loved being surrounded by her family.
Everyone would bring something to add to the meal, and all the women would take turns to get the meal ready and on the table. Mom and her sister would have collected a little money from everyone to replace the threadbare coat she'd worn for too many years because she was always squeezing every penny just to keep their heads above water. She'd cry over the coat and tell them they shouldn't have spent so much, and then she'd open the next package and find a new hat to match it and some sturdy shoes to keep her feet warm and dry.
I'd sit on grandpa's lap after dinner and listen to the men talking, but when I fell asleep that night, it would be grandma who tucked me in under an old quilt made from scraps from her children's dresses and shirts. She'd put me and my siblings and cousins to sleep with stories about our parents when they were growing up, and over time, I'd understand how my mom learned to be such a great mother.
But that is all make-believe.
Mom never got to know her mother, never got to hear her tease her and her sister about living out their lives with first names that differed from the ones she gave them, never got to have a mother who could laugh at their joys, dance at their weddings or cry at their funerals.
My dad's mother had the chance to know her children and grandchildren, but I don't know how well she knew any of us. While my grandfather, Pop, could make us laugh with a joke or trick, she was less approachable and warm.
I don't know how lovable I appeared to her, but there were many times when I felt as welcome as a muddy, stray mutt on the white carpet of her well-ordered life.
Not long ago I wrote about some cheap gifts my grandmother bought us when we moved back to our hometown. One of my daughters thought it was mean to make so much of how little she'd spent, and pointed out how much a child she'd bought an inexpensive toy for loved it.
She was right about toys in general, but it's not the price that makes the difference, it's the sentiment it's given with.
Hers was given with love; ours was not.
I don't know if my grandmother had much chance of being the sweet granny type, though. She couldn't have learned much from her own mother, who was so unpleasant to be around that we kids drew straws to see who had to go with our parents to visit her.
Maybe my grandmother was trying to feel loved with material possessions or simply make a better life for herself, and there wasn't enough left over for us.
My great-aunt told me that when my dad and his siblings were growing up, she and her parents took care of them more than their parents did.
I've seen pictures of my grandmother with her three children around her at her new house. She was hardly more than a girl herself when she became a wife and mother. I can see that she probably needed their help.
I think she knew she wasn't the girl his parents had in mind for my grandfather, but according to my great-aunt, grandmother set her cap for him and he never had a chance. All I know is that Pop adored her and would have done anything to make her happy. I'm pretty sure he did.
I grew up knowing my grandmother was rich, but none of it was for me; and the thing I miss more than the much needed help she could have provided us in lean years with decent clothes and food and education was the time and attention and love that wasn't there for her children or grandchildren.
Sometimes we carry traits of people we do not admire.
Sometime we pass on knowledge we were not given.
Sometimes we have to accept the responsibility for mothering and grand-mothering ourselves and forgive those who wouldn't or couldn't do that for us.
My grandfather's sister was the closest I had to the grandma I dreamed of. Part of me has always wanted to be just like her when I grew up, but I don't think I'm anywhere near as nice as she was so I don't think that's a possibility anymore.
I'd like to think I'm better than I am, but I'm not.
I'd like to think that, given enough time, I could let go of some of the anger and resentment I've had about things that happened, or didn't happen, in my past and for the people who were part of it, but I haven't.
I'd like to think that writing about my feelings will somehow ease the pain and confusion of the child, girl and woman I was and will help me make peace with things I cannot change.
I'm sure this is one of the reasons I write today.
She had two houses, one in our hometown and a vacation home in Florida, and two Lincoln Towncars, all paid for, free and clear.
She had beautiful furniture for the home in town that she occasionally passed onto us whenever she redecorated.
She had a big, wooden cutting board that smelled like ham when it wasn't even a holiday, and she bought small packs of devil's food cake cookies, instead of the bargain cookies we had at my house--you know the ones with three rows of chocolate or vanilla sandwich cookies--and she handed out her cookies sparingly like the coveted treasures they were.
I knew she was rich because she had diamonds flashing on her fingers and wore real furs. She played Bridge with fancy friends and attended functions at the Country Club.
I knew she went shopping in some of the best stores in St. Louis to buy lovely clothes and other things for herself, and I knew she didn't love my mother's children because she rarely shared any of the good things she had with us.
My grandmother took good care of the things she loved, and she didn't take care of us.
I've often imagined how life would have been different if my mother's mother hadn't died at such a young age, almost as often as I've wondered how it would have been if Mom hadn't died likewise.
I imagine that grandma making us dolls out of peg clothespins, with a penciled in face and maybe a string and a rag for a dress.
She would have had us stand on a chair next her by the stove and showed us how she made biscuits and gravy for breakfast.
We would have enjoyed Kool-Aid and a piece of butter bread with sugar on top at her table.
She would have sung us to sleep with a funny old song her mother had sung to her.
She would have cried at our weddings, and been there to help and advise us when we had children of our own.
She would have been poor in material things, but rich in heart and spirit.
She would have given things money can't buy.
This is the granny I never had.
I imagine going to Arkansas to visit her and grandpa with my parents.
She'd have my aunt and as many of my eight uncles and their families as could make it home for a big, holiday celebration.
She'd fuss when all the grandkids would pile into her tiny house and swarmed her for hugs and kisses. "How'd you think I can feed this hungry mob?" she'd ask, but we'd all know how much she loved being surrounded by her family.
Everyone would bring something to add to the meal, and all the women would take turns to get the meal ready and on the table. Mom and her sister would have collected a little money from everyone to replace the threadbare coat she'd worn for too many years because she was always squeezing every penny just to keep their heads above water. She'd cry over the coat and tell them they shouldn't have spent so much, and then she'd open the next package and find a new hat to match it and some sturdy shoes to keep her feet warm and dry.
I'd sit on grandpa's lap after dinner and listen to the men talking, but when I fell asleep that night, it would be grandma who tucked me in under an old quilt made from scraps from her children's dresses and shirts. She'd put me and my siblings and cousins to sleep with stories about our parents when they were growing up, and over time, I'd understand how my mom learned to be such a great mother.
But that is all make-believe.
Mom never got to know her mother, never got to hear her tease her and her sister about living out their lives with first names that differed from the ones she gave them, never got to have a mother who could laugh at their joys, dance at their weddings or cry at their funerals.
My dad's mother had the chance to know her children and grandchildren, but I don't know how well she knew any of us. While my grandfather, Pop, could make us laugh with a joke or trick, she was less approachable and warm.
I don't know how lovable I appeared to her, but there were many times when I felt as welcome as a muddy, stray mutt on the white carpet of her well-ordered life.
Not long ago I wrote about some cheap gifts my grandmother bought us when we moved back to our hometown. One of my daughters thought it was mean to make so much of how little she'd spent, and pointed out how much a child she'd bought an inexpensive toy for loved it.
She was right about toys in general, but it's not the price that makes the difference, it's the sentiment it's given with.
Hers was given with love; ours was not.
I don't know if my grandmother had much chance of being the sweet granny type, though. She couldn't have learned much from her own mother, who was so unpleasant to be around that we kids drew straws to see who had to go with our parents to visit her.
Maybe my grandmother was trying to feel loved with material possessions or simply make a better life for herself, and there wasn't enough left over for us.
My great-aunt told me that when my dad and his siblings were growing up, she and her parents took care of them more than their parents did.
I've seen pictures of my grandmother with her three children around her at her new house. She was hardly more than a girl herself when she became a wife and mother. I can see that she probably needed their help.
I think she knew she wasn't the girl his parents had in mind for my grandfather, but according to my great-aunt, grandmother set her cap for him and he never had a chance. All I know is that Pop adored her and would have done anything to make her happy. I'm pretty sure he did.
I grew up knowing my grandmother was rich, but none of it was for me; and the thing I miss more than the much needed help she could have provided us in lean years with decent clothes and food and education was the time and attention and love that wasn't there for her children or grandchildren.
Sometimes we carry traits of people we do not admire.
Sometime we pass on knowledge we were not given.
Sometimes we have to accept the responsibility for mothering and grand-mothering ourselves and forgive those who wouldn't or couldn't do that for us.
My grandfather's sister was the closest I had to the grandma I dreamed of. Part of me has always wanted to be just like her when I grew up, but I don't think I'm anywhere near as nice as she was so I don't think that's a possibility anymore.
I'd like to think I'm better than I am, but I'm not.
I'd like to think that, given enough time, I could let go of some of the anger and resentment I've had about things that happened, or didn't happen, in my past and for the people who were part of it, but I haven't.
I'd like to think that writing about my feelings will somehow ease the pain and confusion of the child, girl and woman I was and will help me make peace with things I cannot change.
I'm sure this is one of the reasons I write today.
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