Storytellers...but not VH-1's.
I had to turn to Dave the Muse for this evening since the best, most exciting and wonderful thing in my life is a who, not a what…and I’ve always chosen to keep that special by keeping it sort of private. So I can’t write about that.To write about the worst thing in my life right now would be to go against my own rules, established way back at the beginning of this journey.
In addition to not wanting to write about the mediocre, I really want to go to bed early and read. Using Dave helps me focus. (It’s okay, Dave uses me, too.) So, for tonight, Dave prompts this thought…
Who told the stories in your family? Why them?
There are several good storytellers in my family. My maternal grandfather was the best when it came to facts and lessons. He was an orphan who was separated from his brothers and sisters (and I think there were 7 total) when he was young. He reconnected with most of them later in life but he had a rough upbringing and, as a result, was a stern and serious father to my Mom and her sister…and a stern and serious man. He was a wonderful grandfather, though…he adored all of us.
My paternal grandmother is a great storyteller as well. She’s always best for repeating the family stories…the ones you hear a hundred times as you’re growing up until you can tell them just as well.
My Mom also weaves a good tale. She combines several skills…she can tell the fact and lesson stories; she knows every family story there is and has probably made a few of them up along the way; and she best emulates her Mother’s story telling talent.
My maternal grandmother was the best storyteller…the best. My grandmother was always small – as far back as I can remember. She always seemed to be our size and we loved getting a drink of water, using the same stool to reach the sink that she used to reach the high shelves in the cabinets. Her name was Elizabeth but most people called her Libby…or Mabel. My Dad always called her Mabel…we never really understood where that nickname originated, but it suited her well.
My grandmother had white hair that seemed like wisps of silk. She had blue blue blue eyes - a fact I really discovered when I visited her many years later in a nursing home, under the grip of Alzheimers, when she no longer wore her glasses.
I take after my grandmother in many ways – I developed allergies in my early 20s, I never found a first gray hair…it was white, Mother Nature blessed me with her fair skin and small hands (just like my Mom’s, too), and we all inherited her great love of music. Oh my God, the musical talent this woman possessed. She had perfect pitch and rarely needed music when she played the piano. Even in her eighties, she could turn out an old ragtime tune like nobody’s business. She played for the church theater group for as long as she possibly could. When she finally hung up the ivories, they gave her a wonderful party, paying a much deserved tribute to her.
I realize now that I’ve never written about my grandmother before. It’s been a while since I’ve even thought of her. Before she got sick, my mother and her family let an old and tiring subject zap them of any energy and desire to remain a real family. We were closest to my Mom’s family and I never would have predicted the ending that befell them…and, in turn, us.
The last time I saw her was that day in the nursing home. It was close to Christmas and I took the day off just to visit her…because I hadn’t yet at that point…and I really wanted to see her. I sat in her room and talked a lot while she watched me with those blue eyes – and that’s when I REALLY noticed them.
I don’t know if she knew who I was and it didn’t matter. She seemed to know - she knew I was my Mom’s daughter which could have been my sister or me. At one point, while she was staring at me so intently, I was talking about how silly the fighting in the family was and I very quietly told her that I wish I knew what she was thinking. After about 10 minutes of sitting in the shared silence, she asked, “Do you want to know what I know?” She was there…right at that moment, she was there. I told her yes, very much so. And that was the last thing she ever said to me. I never got to hear what she knew – as quickly as she was there, she was gone again. After another half hour or so, it was time for her to eat lunch and time for me to be on my way. I wish I had stayed longer.
So, it would seem that Dave the Muse has led me down a much different path from that on which I began. He’s sneaky that way. Nonetheless, I can’t bring myself not to post this, but not before promising myself that I’ll continue in the next day or two. I’ll get back to the original point of this subject…why my grandmother was the storyteller in our family.
While I love the memories, I hate when the past sneaks up behind you and sucker-punches you right in the stomach.
posted by Cherry Indigo (Cindy) @ 2/06/2007 10:10:00 PM
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