When
my son was about three months old, my mother and I took him to see
her grandmother. I hadn’t seen the woman in quite some time, but my
mother had told me that her mind was beginning to go, so I should
visit while she still remembered who I was. In my youth I had seen
her frequently. She had short white curls that clung to her head if
she’d recently had a perm, and hung loose around her temples when
she hadn’t. Her big blue eyes and round face were classic features
of my family, all stemming down from her.
My grandfather, his older sister and brother, had long passed away, and I often wondered how my great grandmother could have survived so long after loosing three of her five children. Looking at my son in his car seat carrier, I thought I would go insane if I lost him that way.
Gram waved me over as I timidly stepped into her living room. The house smelled of age and the still quiet of the place irked me. As a child, I had visited here quite a bit. Everything looked the same, not a speck of dust was out of place, as if it had been frozen since the last time I was there. I approached her, and Gram smiled sweetly and brushed my cheek with her hand.
“So, you have grown up on me, have you?” Her voice was softer than I’d remembered. She’d always been rather loud in my mind. The wrinkles around her blue eyes twitched as she smiled. “It’s been a few years, my dear.”
I set the carrier down on the floor beside the swivel rocker where she was sitting and smiled. “I’m sorry, Gram. It’s hard, you know, between my husband and my job and now the baby. I don’t have time to eat, let alone visit.”
She waved off my comment and peered at the baby over the arm of her chair. “Well, come on, get him out of that contraption. Let Gram have a look-see.” I undid the restraints and took my sleeping baby from his carrier, placing him carefully in her arms. “My, my,” she sighed. “What do you call this one?”
“Corey Michael,” I replied. The baby opened his eyes, yawned, and made a face.
She pulled the blanket away from his chin and inspected the tiny flannel shirt and overalls I had dressed him in. “My God, he looks just like your grandfather!” she squeaked. I laughed. “You know, they didn’t make these commercially when I had my babies. I had to make them myself.” She fingered the metal clasps of the overalls. “I used buttons, though.”
“I know. I’ve seen pictures of Pap as a little boy.” I said.
She looked up at me. “What does his father look like?” I pulled out the family picture my husband and I had had taken when Corey was a month old. The edges were crinkled from being in my pocket, but I knew she’d want to see it. “Hmm, doesn’t look like much. Where’s he from?”
“Shamokin.”
Again, she waved it off with a flick of her hand and peered into the little face of my son. “Brown eyes?”
“They were blue when he was born.” I replied.
“Pity. Should have had your eyes. Your grandfather’s eyes.” She looked up at my blue-gray eyes and smiled. “But he’s beautiful anyway, child.”
My mother had been busy searching her purse for the disposable camera she’d brought along. “We need a picture, Gram,” she said. Her grandmother turned to her.
“Why, Leanne, didn’t even hear you come in.” she said, the loud voice from my youth returning. “Yes, of course, five generations.” She turned Corey in her lap to face away from her. Mom’s Aunt Martha, Gram’s youngest, stood in what would have been Pap’s place had he lived to see this day. Aunt Irene, Aunt Martha’s older sister, took the camera. I squatted next to Gram’s chair and my mother took her place behind me, smiling as Aunt Irene snapped the picture.
“I can’t wait to get that developed.” Mom said, taking the camera and burying it in her purse. Gram turned Corey to face her again and began clucking softly at him. He smiled a big, toothless smile and cooed in reply. I sat down on the sofa a few feet away. I tried hard to imagine what my great grandmother’s life had been like.
She was born in 1906 and grew up during the First World War, married in the Roaring Twenties, had babies during the Great Depression, and raised them through the Second World War. She must have cried when Aunt Sarah died in 1942, followed by Uncle Edward in 1946, and then when my grandfather, Henry, went off to war during the Korean Conflict in the Fifties. Now, here she was, decades later, with the grandchild of her grandchild lying in her arms, giggling and cooing: December cuddling January. I wanted to cry.
We spent a few hours with her, my mother, my son, and me, until she began to grow weary of the day and wanted to nap. I took my wiggling, giggling baby from her regretful arms and watched helplessly as Aunt Martha guided Gram’s walker to the chair. “You come and see me again, deary,” she called as she clunked her way to her bedroom.
“Sure, Gram.” I replied. “Have a good nap.” She waved me off again. I smiled a few moments later as I tucked my baby into his car seat and carried him to the car. My mother followed me with the diaper bag. “I’ll have to make sure I get out here more often.” I told her.
Though my intentions were good, sadly, I never did get back to Gram’s. She passed away the following July, before Corey turned one. Her beloved one and only great great grandson was named in her obituary.
My grandfather, his older sister and brother, had long passed away, and I often wondered how my great grandmother could have survived so long after loosing three of her five children. Looking at my son in his car seat carrier, I thought I would go insane if I lost him that way.
Gram waved me over as I timidly stepped into her living room. The house smelled of age and the still quiet of the place irked me. As a child, I had visited here quite a bit. Everything looked the same, not a speck of dust was out of place, as if it had been frozen since the last time I was there. I approached her, and Gram smiled sweetly and brushed my cheek with her hand.
“So, you have grown up on me, have you?” Her voice was softer than I’d remembered. She’d always been rather loud in my mind. The wrinkles around her blue eyes twitched as she smiled. “It’s been a few years, my dear.”
I set the carrier down on the floor beside the swivel rocker where she was sitting and smiled. “I’m sorry, Gram. It’s hard, you know, between my husband and my job and now the baby. I don’t have time to eat, let alone visit.”
She waved off my comment and peered at the baby over the arm of her chair. “Well, come on, get him out of that contraption. Let Gram have a look-see.” I undid the restraints and took my sleeping baby from his carrier, placing him carefully in her arms. “My, my,” she sighed. “What do you call this one?”
“Corey Michael,” I replied. The baby opened his eyes, yawned, and made a face.
She pulled the blanket away from his chin and inspected the tiny flannel shirt and overalls I had dressed him in. “My God, he looks just like your grandfather!” she squeaked. I laughed. “You know, they didn’t make these commercially when I had my babies. I had to make them myself.” She fingered the metal clasps of the overalls. “I used buttons, though.”
“I know. I’ve seen pictures of Pap as a little boy.” I said.
She looked up at me. “What does his father look like?” I pulled out the family picture my husband and I had had taken when Corey was a month old. The edges were crinkled from being in my pocket, but I knew she’d want to see it. “Hmm, doesn’t look like much. Where’s he from?”
“Shamokin.”
Again, she waved it off with a flick of her hand and peered into the little face of my son. “Brown eyes?”
“They were blue when he was born.” I replied.
“Pity. Should have had your eyes. Your grandfather’s eyes.” She looked up at my blue-gray eyes and smiled. “But he’s beautiful anyway, child.”
My mother had been busy searching her purse for the disposable camera she’d brought along. “We need a picture, Gram,” she said. Her grandmother turned to her.
“Why, Leanne, didn’t even hear you come in.” she said, the loud voice from my youth returning. “Yes, of course, five generations.” She turned Corey in her lap to face away from her. Mom’s Aunt Martha, Gram’s youngest, stood in what would have been Pap’s place had he lived to see this day. Aunt Irene, Aunt Martha’s older sister, took the camera. I squatted next to Gram’s chair and my mother took her place behind me, smiling as Aunt Irene snapped the picture.
“I can’t wait to get that developed.” Mom said, taking the camera and burying it in her purse. Gram turned Corey to face her again and began clucking softly at him. He smiled a big, toothless smile and cooed in reply. I sat down on the sofa a few feet away. I tried hard to imagine what my great grandmother’s life had been like.
She was born in 1906 and grew up during the First World War, married in the Roaring Twenties, had babies during the Great Depression, and raised them through the Second World War. She must have cried when Aunt Sarah died in 1942, followed by Uncle Edward in 1946, and then when my grandfather, Henry, went off to war during the Korean Conflict in the Fifties. Now, here she was, decades later, with the grandchild of her grandchild lying in her arms, giggling and cooing: December cuddling January. I wanted to cry.
We spent a few hours with her, my mother, my son, and me, until she began to grow weary of the day and wanted to nap. I took my wiggling, giggling baby from her regretful arms and watched helplessly as Aunt Martha guided Gram’s walker to the chair. “You come and see me again, deary,” she called as she clunked her way to her bedroom.
“Sure, Gram.” I replied. “Have a good nap.” She waved me off again. I smiled a few moments later as I tucked my baby into his car seat and carried him to the car. My mother followed me with the diaper bag. “I’ll have to make sure I get out here more often.” I told her.
Though my intentions were good, sadly, I never did get back to Gram’s. She passed away the following July, before Corey turned one. Her beloved one and only great great grandson was named in her obituary.