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.