Memories

I was paging through some old photo albums last night (My spouse's parents celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary and we are putting together a display of their life) and I happened to come across a picture that brought tears to my eyes.

There she was, kindly looking back at me from the picture as she held my eldest daughter, then all of 4 months old. Her eyes were a faded blue, laugh wrinkles accenting her features, so full of love...

My grandmother did not have an easy life. I never knew my real grandfather, for he left before there was ever a wedding. My grandmother had her first child out of wedlock in the early 1920's. Daughter of a mother who ran an inn that sometimes catered to the unsavory part of town, she managed to rise above her surroundings to find a fine man who, although not related by blood, was everything else to me that defined a man as a grandfather.

They were not rich people -- my grandfather worked in the coalmines, an occupation that later claimed his life with 'black lung disease', and my grandmother raised 7 children, in addition to my father. She loved my father very much, although for reasons I am not sure of, he spent his younger years being raised by his own grandmother. I think she spent a large portion of her older years trying to make up for this, but my father never complained about it, but rather, treated her like the treasure she was.

My grandfather succumbed to lung cancer about the time I turned 12 and I can still remember when the news came to us. We were at home at the time, having taken an afternoon off from the hospital. My father cried -- I had never seen him cry before. My mother sat holding my youngest brother, who was 2 at the time, and she just stared at the floor. And my father -- my father stood alone and silent, until I walked to him and put my arms round him. Together we cried, my father and I, and he touched his forehead to mine and looked me in the eye.

"You loved him too, didn't you? You loved him too." For you see, although my grandfather was not his real father, he was more a father to my dad than many men are to their own children.

Grandma's life changed from that day on. She became much more withdrawn, pensive. She spent a lot of time alone in the house with only her small dog for company. His name was 'Misfit' and a mean tempered canine he was. But he doted on Grandma and protected her zealously, which meant I gained a tolerance for the snappy little fellow when I spent a few weeks with her each summer as did our family when she came and spent several weeks at a time with us off and on throughout the years.

I guess I was around 16 when rumors began to circulate amongst the family that there might be something wrong with Grandma. This made me angry and I swore to my parents and the aunts and uncles that there was nothing wrong with her. But deep down I began to realize they were probably right. She became more vague, never nasty but.. not quite all there. Preliminary studies showed 'hardening of the arteries' and this lovely woman began to slip away from us.

However - she never forgot who I was. Through the next 8 years as her condition worsened and I married, she would always be happy to see me, and although she might not remember the name of my husband, or even the name of my sisters, she always knew me. She always asked how I was. She always showed an interest in my life.

If there was one person in this world that loved me despite all my failings, it was my grandmother. If there was one person who truly believed that I could make something of myself, it was this diminuitive woman staring back at me from an aged photograph, a half smile on her lips and a proud lift to her shoulders.

Such bittersweet memories. It is amazing how much power can be contained in a simple photograph.

I love you, Gramma.