As I look back and compare my paternal and maternal grandmothers, I realize how different they were. They both may have been born and raised in the same small town clad county. They both came from similar hardworking large families. They both had the same short perm and glasses in the 80s when I was a child. Even with all these similarities, they were each so unique that I learned very different things about what it means to be a woman and mother from each of them.
My dad's mom, Grandma Dode, was like a warm bowl of stew that you couldn't stop eating and once in a while something spicy would kick you in the tastebuds. She was covered in elbow grease and practicality. She defined all that's good about home cooking, I wish I'd appreciated that more as a picky kid. She loved to play card games. She loved everything about nature. She used to hike through parts of the woods as a fragile 80something that I wouldn't even attempt in my early 20s (which tells you as much about my awkwardness as her nimbleness). She had the most amazing garden, filled with edibles and vase-ables. I remember her post-depression frugality coming across in little ways like saving tin foil to reuse over and over and having the same furniture and decor from the time i was born until she died 30 years later. She was unexpectedly hilarious. She and my grandpa acted like they didn't like each other, but I think they secretly did. Also, once you were her family, that was it. There was nothing you could do wrong. I was a lazy and irresponsible teen who she somehow found facts to boast about. Homemade pie crust, wrinkled hands, knee-high pantyhose. She was the quintessential grandmother.
My mom's mom, Grandma Roberts, was like a corner curio cabinet filled with beautiful, personal and interesting trinkets. My best memories of her were before my grandfather died. I remember walking into their bedroom and seeing their perfectly pressed matching outfits laying on the bed, ready for a night of ballroom dancing. Grandma Roberts loved to entertain. She was good at it, making it appear effortless. The entertaining area of their house (that my grandfather built) was about 600 square feet, if I had to guess. I don't ever remember it feeling cramped though. I credit this to her. Twenty+ people eased into the living room in a very loaves and fishes sort of way. She was always very put together... her teased red hair, carefully manicured nails, matching shoes and bag. And she smelled divine. I remember her seeming to be someone who could easy be transplanted into a large sophisticated metropolis instead of the 300 person 'ville she brought so much style to. She was creative and artistic. Her home was always changing and updating. She wrote poems and short stories. She was a social butterfly. My grandfather adored her. She was someone who made everyone fell comfortable and lit up a room.
Our parents help shape us into who we're going to be. Grandparents have this way of doing the same but with an influence that's more subtle based on example. I think they're also so important because we can look at our grandparents and see why and how our parents are the people they are.
I say ALL of that to introduce this... My husband's mother died when I was pregnant with our first son. She never even knew I was pregnant. I talked to her on the phone many times but never actually met her. She was essential to her son. Our kids have other grandparents. Great ones, in fact (you don't want to get me started about the emotions tied to watching my parents grandparent my kids... whom my kids clearly prefer to me, by the way) but there's clearly a grandmother shaped hole. And if you think MY grandmothers were different, Arturo and Umberto's biological grandmothers are an Iowa farm wife and a Panama-born reggae musician from Brooklyn. Easily put, it's an absolute shame that the boys will never get to meet her.
A few weeks ago, we got a package in the mail. My husband's cousin sent us a blanket that his mother made for her daughter 18 years ago to pass on to our youngest, our new arrival. It's beautiful. It's not a color or pattern you'd expect. It's soft. It's warm. It's this connection that we'd never have otherwise. This item exists only from their grandmother's hard work and hours of time. I imagine her, empty nested, working diligently on it every night while watching TV, smoking cigarettes, listening to music. I imagine her laughing loudly with the phone to her ear while continuing to complete it. I imagine her long dreadlocks resting on the completed portion while she accomplishes a little more. I cry because she never imagined that someday it would surround a grandson that she'd never meet.
Much love to you, Maritza. You're a part of our home.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
