January 30, 2001 – Journal
Grace tells me that when I was little I pulled a button clean off her muskrat-collared coat. She says we were out for a walk, and I kept tugging on her sleeve. I wanted to know, she says, what was I going to call her if she married my Grampa?
I don’t remember this incident. I’m not even sure when she came on the scene. First, there was Granny. After Granny died, quiet. And then there was Grace.
I wasn’t invited to the wedding. I don’t know if any of the grandchildren were. To my childish logic, this was a rejection. I think that must be when I vowed she would never be my grandmother.
Childish logic, indeed.
I’m ashamed of that logic now, of course. It’s the same logic that led me to refer to Grace for decades as my grandfather’s wife, and not as my grandmother. I know that some of my cousins addressed her as Grandma, and others as Grandma Grace; I could only ever manage to call her Grace.
And then something wonderful happened to me, about ten years after I wrote that journal entry. I was going through a box of old correspondence, and discovered that an awful lot of it was from Grace. Birthday and Christmas cards, of course, all signed in her beautiful handwriting. But more important were the notes and letters of encouragement that she had sent me over the years, especially when I was going through my darkest times. I finally understood that regardless of the role I had cast her in, Grace had taken me on as her own flesh and blood from the beginning.
Luckily, I had the good sense to put down the box, pick up the telephone, and tell her what I had discovered, and how grateful I was that she had been my grandmother for all of those years. I think that must have been when I vowed that she would always be my grandmother.
My grandmother died on March 13, 2013, just ten days shy of her 90th birthday. Since then, I have had the privilege of leafing through her photo albums and scanning the contents for the rest of my family to enjoy. I have been allowed to see her grow and age through the stages of her life, from her days as a schoolgirl, to both of her wedding days, to the simple moments of holding her great-grandchildren for the first time. I have been struck by Grace’s beauty, her smile, her obvious enjoyment of birthday cake, and her love of her family.
I wish I had taken the time to ask Grace to go through these albums with me while she was still alive. It’s one of those things: you always seem to be too busy, and then it’s too late. Grace knew about this trap, I think, because she often told me, “It’s later than you think.” I try to keep that in mind now if I find myself wanting to put off something important.
It’s funny how I still have such an impression of Grace being stern, and a little bit scary. But the albums are helping me to remember a different story: on the one hand, she wouldn’t let me watch Days of our Lives when I was at her cottage; but on the other hand, she rubbed Vicks VapoRub into my chest when I was sick, and she looked after me when my mother was away. She seems to glow with love wherever she’s pictured with my grandfather’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; all those people she adopted when she married him. And it’s not just us: you can see that same love in all the pictures of her siblings, nieces and nephews, friends, and coworkers, and even my Granny, who she was friends with.
All those people this woman loved with all her heart, and I got to be one of them.
God, I’m so lucky.
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