I can still remember seeing my grandmother standing on her porch in her house dress and solid “working” shoes, and her hair tightly wound from overnight curlers. In my memory-vision, I see her dumping a pan of some liquid off the edge of the porch. I can also see her shaking a rug off the same porch, her apron often in place when at home. She would pick up their black cat with white boots and pet her. They always had a Boots in the house as far back as I can remember.
I remember Grandma was quiet for the most part, but always there. I remember talking to her as she cooked and answered my questions. She always had a round tin full of crayons and a couple of coloring books for us. She never colored with us or played with us; she was always doing the adult stuff – gardening, cooking, cleaning… (probably cleaning up after Grandpa who was usually outside doing outside adult stuff).
Grandma always sported a “frown”, but there was always a twinkle in her eyes and her lips would crack into a smile on occasion. It took me until I was nearing forty that I realized I probably had the same “frown” from tiredness, pain, age, and/or hereditary factors, and I finally understood why she always seemed to be frowning. Not that I was afraid of that frown. She was a safe haven, a quiet place away from nine siblings. And she was Grandma. Safe. She loved me. And I loved her.
I disappointed her once when she took me to visit a friend up the road and I was too shy to talk to the friend. I always felt bad about that – letting her down. And even though she scolded me a little when we left, I was awfully glad when we did leave to go back to their house: the safe place. Home away from home.
I only remember being alone – without siblings, etc. – at my grandparents’ house a few times, but I treasured the visits as the gifts they were; I treasure them even more now that I understand what they meant to me. It gave me time to get to know them a bit more without the crowd of family, but also time to wander around the house, picking wild strawberries, exploring the acreage all on my own, and in the back of the house “riding” the skeleton of a tractor that stood as a monument to farming days.
It's interesting to me as I finish this blog, that it was grandma who was the focal point at their house. In later years, after she was gone from us, grandpa remarried, and my piece of our large family would help out in the garden, and that's when I got to know grandpa – wonderful old coot that he was. Now he is also gone. I'm glad I was able to make these memories that will last through my lifetime and perhaps beyond.
Sometimes, parents are so busy, days or weeks can go by without any real communication – or just lovely little chats – between children and parents. If you are a grandparent and you have some time to give, give your grandchildren your full attention. Really listening to a child is a gift. A gift that gives confidence, freedom, self-worth, and grounding, and it lives forever in their hearts. Be a listener. The rewards benefit both child and adult.
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