Visiting grandma, now and then

This weekend I’m traveling to Santa Cruz and San Francisco, California, — primarily to spend time with my 93-year-old grandmother, who also happens to be my soul mate.

I love her. She and I seem to have an understanding between us that needs no words. We also share a love of the water, backyard birds (she doesn’t like birds for pets), classical art and music, children’s books, nurturing others and singing hymns.

When I was a newborn my parents moved to Ohio to live near my grandmother who was deep in grief over the recent and unexpected sudden loss of her husband, my maternal grandfather.  Perhaps one of the reason’s she and I bonded so well may was because I was a distraction from her pain.

Some of my fondest childhood memories were in the house in Worthington, Ohio that Grandma kept for guests even after she re-married and moved into her husband’s home. It made sense that she had a house for her own stuff because she loved having guests and because (until his dying day) my step-grandpa kept his house exactly as it had been decorated by his first wife. Don’t take me wrong, he was a good man and I loved him too.

Grandma’s house was a treasure of things to discover and do from my earliest years through my teens.

Her hostessing skills put me to shame. We would arrive at the house (the one she kept for guests) and she would be there waiting for us, no matter the hour.

Her refrigerator and cupboards would be stocked with fresh foods and special treats such as Breyer’s vanilla bean ice cream and sugar cereals that my parents did not usually allow me to have. And the toy closet almost always held a new (to me) toy.

It was a large house with four bedrooms (or maybe five). It had a fireplace, a remote controlled door garage (which to me as a child was a never ending delight), large kitchen and dining room with a big window facing the backyard. It had a livingroom with a huge oriental rug in its center and a painting of a stormy sea on one wall.  My favorite part, however was playing in her large backyard which had a fire pit, swing set, a set of beautiful white-painted cast iron benches, several bird houses and a sand pit.

For as much as I loved my grandmother I was a misbehaved houseguest in that I loved to rummage through grandma’s dressers and closets. I never took anything, however, without her initiating the offer (well maybe a couple of times I asked before she offered).

The kitchen had a blue and white theme. All of a sudden the memory of the smell of Dove dish soap mixed with grandma’s Este Lauder perfume floods my thoughts.

I was a child of simple pleasures. I remember how much fun it was to play with the wooden music box she had that you would put metal records into and then wind up to play. Or how great it would be to sit on grandma’s lap as she read to  me using different voices.

There were a few things she would do when she tucked me into bed. She’d sing the old tune that I only know by its chorus… “over the sea, over the sea. Jesus savior pilot me. Over the sea, over the sea, over the Jasper sea.” Grandma was an alto so her voice would sometimes crack on the high note on the word Jasper if she hadn’t pitched the tune just right.

Then she would pray with me, give me a hug and a butterfly kiss and turn out the lights. 

There were places forbidden to me as well, that is, until I was in my teens. The basement I later learned was full of my maternal grandfather’s things. Perhaps that’s why I was not allowed down there, for fear I would hurt myself or damage something of his. It held his rock and fossil collections, his work benches, his many cabinets of files that hadn’t been opened or touched since his death and many other things.

Also forbidden was the attic because it was not floored and I would have easily fallen onto the insulation.

We were at grandma’s often enough that I had friends in the neighborhood and from her church.  In fact my first official “date” was with a boy from my grandma’s church. He came to my grandparents’ door and asked to take me to the dairy queen. Neither of us were old enough to drive so we walked.

Well my day is coming to a close and I have a long list of things to do before I tuck myself into bed for a few hours of sleep before I catch an early morning flight so I must go.

What are some of your childhood memories of your grandparents or similar figureheads in your life.

 

Trains from the past

On my metro commute into work this morning I happened to glance up from my Suduku puzzle and see our train was keeping pace with a Marc commuter train – a real train.

I couldn’t help but stare at the faces in the windows parallel mine. The faces were dead, half asleep, open mouthed snoring, and a few were turned to PDAs or the morning newspaper.

Childhood memories flooded my thoughts of how father took the Marc train to work from the Point of Rocks station, Maryland, every weekday.

I remembered being half asleep in the blue/grey leather back seat of our white Oldsmobile as mom drove dad to the station. She was a stay at home mom. I remember that on many occasions we would arrive just as a train was pulling out and how dad, in his 30-year-old body, would dash, briefcase and sack lunch in hand, to jump in the open door of the moving train so he wouldn’t have to wait an hour for the next and be late to work.

I recall begging mom, after the train left, to let me lay a penny on one of the tracks to be flattened by the next train. And how we would arrive early in the evening so I could search around the tracks for my flattened penny to add to my treasure trove.

I remember the first time dad took me on the train and how important I thought he must be for the conductors to know his name. I remember how proud it made me.

And I realized this morning that even 25 years later, the expressions on the faces of the passengers on the train and even the metro had not changed. They were ever as tired and worn looking. And I wondered to my self this morning, whether I too had become one of those faces.

 

The Canyon

I didn’t know for a long time that I had Native American ancestry: Delaware Indian. Yet I’ve been drawn to the culture, the music, everything about it since I can remember.

When I was about 13 my family and I went around the US by train, visiting family and famous parks/places along the way. We went to the Grand Canyon a day or two after I’d bought some Native American music in Seattle.

I turned on my tape player, put on my headphones and jumped a fence to sit on the edge of a cliff and listen to my new music collection.

At first it was just like being in an IMAX theatre with gentle theme music playing, except that it was hot, I felt the mid-day sun on my shoulders, there was no breeze and I could still kinda hear the tourists’ voices come and go.

I was too young to care about my safety.  Ok, in truth, I’d probably do the same thing now, just with a more modern electronics. You can’t really experience the Canyon feel with metal railings between you and the edge.

As the music started to get stronger I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a great bird flying over the canyon.

I would have my arms out stretched and soar near the edge so that  I could trace the edges of the canyon walls, letting the updrafts from the cliffs push me along. If I were a bird, I would dive down to the water to look for food and perhaps leave a mark on some whitewater rafter’s shoulder.

I started trying to match my breathing to the slow pace of the music as I pretended I was the bird.

Then I’m not sure what happened exactly but all of a sudden I had the distinct sensation of flying, of feeling wind fighting against my face, arms and chest and I almost thought for a second that I had somehow actually done it.

I felt free and overwhelmed with happiness at the sights below me. I knew I was sitting on the ground. Yet I didn’t feel like my mind was. I guess that’s the best way to explain it.

I was calm. Every fiber of my 13-year-old anxed-ridden mind and body was happy, calm and I felt a joy welling up inside me that didn’t fight to get out. It just was……

My breathing slowed more and more until the tape ran out (oh if I’d had an iPod back then it probably would have gone on for hours) and woke me from my state when the play button clicked off. The spell was broken. But I was still at peace.

Since then I’ve had the tape stolen from me. And I sooooo sometimes crave to hear those songs again, yet I wouldn’t know where to look.

But not all is lost.

What I didn’t know until we got home and developed the film that summer was that dad had taken a picture of me sitting there looking out over the canyon, listening to the music. He had lifted his right arm above his head and clicked the shutter not knowing if it would turn out.

Those who have visited my apartment know that above my TV and bookcase on the wall there hangs a blown up framed picture (larger than a poster on its side) of me in tan shorts, hair in a pony tail, wearing a soft leather vest (Native American made, in fact) over a white tank top. I’m sitting cross legged with my back to the camera and the tape player is on the rock beside me.