My Grandmother

I remember it like yesterday: my grandmother cutting my cold peanut butter sandwich into quarters. But not just any quarters, like triangles, and not squares like my mom. And she cuts off the crust. This is what makes it so special. And the bread that I know was frozen but she tries to hide it. I know it was frozen because of how it crystallizes the honey into granuals that soften as I take each special triangle bite.

She had a basket that she kept in the basement and when we got to pick out a little surprise at the end of every visit if we were "good". I am not sure what "good" was because every time I got to pick out a little toy no matter what. I would sift my way through the basket looking for the just right gift. A plastic ring, a pencil with pink hearts.

She always had beautiful toes, always painted with pink nail polish or red. Trimmed and just perfect, even as she grew into her old age when bending over hurt her body.

I remember the stories of her taking models to Paris and Italy and how the Italian boys would chase the women around Rome because they were so beautiful. How she loved to travel, and I am not sure if that love started when she started taking women overseas of before with my grandfather.

I remember the time she gave me a book and I so wish I still had it to this day. It was on etiquette for women. As a teenager flipping through the book gasping at what it said: "a woman wears her hair like this, a woman can walk with a book on her head, a woman always has soft hands and her nails trimmed and painted."

My grandmother was a woman. She had etiquette. She was beautiful. She knew how to wear her hair and her makeup and false eye lashes and walk in tall high heels. She worked and had four children, which was not common for her time.

I am sure that my love for sports and wild ways was confusing to her. Or maybe it was not because in her own way she was wild too. I did not know until her funeral that she taught classes at Stevens-Henager (a local college) teaching women how to be secretaries. She paved the way for women to work during a time where that was uncommon.

I arrived to her room just after she had passed. I was the only grandchild present and I am not sure why I was so lucky to be there. My mother called and asked me to come sooner than planned because it would not be much longer.

Crowded into a small room with my grandpa, mom, stepdad, and uncle I stared at her frail body. She has lost so much weight and her hair was so white. The grandmother that I knew, the one that always had her toes done, her boobs perked, the jewelry just right was now gone. I remember the room was very still and warm and I just started at my grandpa. They had known each other since they were 14. Now in his 80's, I could not wrap my head around what he must be thinking and feeling as his wife laid restless in the bed.

A few hours later I was at their house. The same house where I had eaten all those peanut butter sandwiches and I was walking around her room. I slowly took in the site of her jewelry box, her glass angels that she collected, the photo of her when she was in her prime, her mirror that was surrounded with lights like I used to see in the movies so that she could do her makeup just right. On her desk I saw a little paper that she had kept and I picked it up. It read:

”September 2014 Legends say that hummingbirds float free of time, carrying our hops for love, joy, and celebration. The hummingbirds delicate grace reminds us that life is rich, beauty is everywhere, every personal connection has meaning and that laughter is life's sweetest creation.”

I think I said something like, "ok grandma, I hear you and I will take the humming bird as my sign that you are with me." And I do, I see them and I think of her. I like to tell myself she is sending me love, or telling me I am on the right path. Reminding me that laughter is life's sweetest creation and beauty is everywhere.

Writing this now I wish I had known my grandmother not only as my grandmother but as a woman. I would have like to ask her questions like how do you go against the grain? How do you do something completely different than what society tells you to do and do your own thing anyway? And by doing that you open the door for hundreds of women to do things differently too?

I have big shoes to fill. And tall, sexy high heels at that. I could never walk in high heels. I stumble around and fall over and only last about 45 minutes. Years ago I vowed to never wear high heels again after a very painful night of dancing. So sometimes I wonder how am I her grandchild? I feel so opposite of her in every way, especially as I age and wear less makeup, don't style my hair, or keep my nails trimmed. According to the book she gave me I am definitely not a “woman”.

I think in today's world, we, as women are doing so much deep emotional work, transmuting what it means to be a "woman" in the first place. I often hear the saying that goes something like, "we are doing the healing work for our ancestors." But what if they were doing the healing work for us too, while they were alive? What if it does not go one direction, but it is reciprocal?

My grandmother gave me the gift of going against the grain. Not caring what other people think and doing it anyway. Paving the way for other women to work when society said "stay home and take care of your children." And her gift continued as she fed me peanut butter sandwiches and guided me to her bedroom 30 years later to teach me of hummingbird medicine. And it continues today when I feel her with me or think of her and the memories.

I'd like to think that the healing does go both ways. The gifts goes both ways. Although "gone" we are still in relationship with each other. Which means those questions I often ask myself, "what am I doing?" and "how do I do this?" can be answered by remembering her. By remembering I am a woman that comes from strength and going against the grain of society is in my DNA and I can do that in my tennis shoes.