The most
beautiful things in life are not things. They're
people and places and memories and pictures. They're
feelings and moments and smiles and laughter.
My
whole body was filled with excitement. I put my coat over my
pajamas and ran to the car. When I was a little girl just over three,
my baby brother was born. Daddy woke me late at night and told me it
was time for Mommy to go to the hospital and for me to go stay with
Grandma Gigi. They had gone over the plan with me. When the
time
came, Gigi would watch me, and we would make my favorite
blueberry pancakes while we waited on the baby. I’ve
treasured that feeling, as it is my first real memory. It is
often how we are feeling at a specific time that triggers our
memories. All it takes is just that one thing.
That memory
actually came to me when I was feeling loss. I had just
learned that
a dear friend’s father passed unexpectedly from a
massive heart
attack. It was the same way my own father died 30 years ago. I
began to think of him…and of Papa and Grandma Gigi…and
of my brother…and of that first memory. Memories of these
parts of me and these loved ones are bittersweet now that they have
all died, and I’m grateful I still remember.
Except
for cousins, most of my dad’s side of the family has gone.
Particularly the ones closest to me. The thing I remember about my
Papa was he was a grumpy old man for as long as I can remember. No
one knew back when it first began what caused his hands, legs, and
vision to begin giving out on him around age forty. He had worked as
a railroader since 11th
grade when he left school. Once his body began to cripple quickly, he
could no longer work and needed constant care. For as far back as I
remember, he sat in a high bar stool chair with back and seat
cushions. As grumpy as he was, he loved us grandkids. He called us
pole cats and ground squirrels. That was his thing.
Grandma
Gigi was a walking, talking Southern woman. She grew up in Kentucky
in a poor, large family. She loved to cook, and she would cook
four-course meals every afternoon. Her specialties were fried chicken
and 3-layer coconut cake. And she insisted we clean our plate. My
brother would sometimes sit at the table for hours until he finished.
Gigi said grub was a precious commodity, not to be wasted. She told
us stories of when her own family went hungry. Gigi spent her days
and nights taking care of Papa. She never learned to drive and didn’t
want to. She was a woman content with being at home. She believed
it’s where women were supposed to be.
So many
of my memories are with childhood friends. I made my first real
friend at birth, growing up together, staying close for 60
years
now. Our moms were best friends, so we mirrored them. In our
elementary years, we went to different schools. But when the weekend
came, we were together. The memory the two of us share as our
favorite was playing ‘tornado’ with our Barbies. We each
had a huge collection. We would get them all out and put together a
little town for them. Then we’d take turns grabbing them and
tossing them in the air.
In
fifth grade, my parents divorced, and we moved into the same school
district. Having her there, during that time of drastic changes at
home, kept me positive. In high school, we were cheerleaders
together. She was in my wedding. As we’ve gotten older, we see
and talk less. But I know that if I need her, she’s beside me. Now that
I must spend so much time alone, memories can flood back
without notice. I’m rarely aware of what triggers which memory,
but they all make me emotional. They make me laugh. They make me sad.
They make me question choices I’ve made. They make me proud
too.
I
had all five of my grandchildren spend the night with me not
long ago. Despite my condition, they are the humans I refused to give
up. Being with them brings feelings of Deja’ vu,
unconditional love, and amazement. When I have them, they want
me to tell them stories. I try to share memories with them
that
I hope one day they will all remember…well not Joelle
since she’s only two.
I
told them that night about how I walked to and from school 12
blocks every day, no matter what the weather (no
exaggeration).
As a kid, I was decked out in clothes for all seasons –
sunglasses and a floppy hat for summer; a windbreaker jacket
and
sock hat for fall; boots, mittens, scarf, snow pants and a
hooded heavy coat for winter; and a raincoat, umbrella, and
galoshes for spring.
I
told them about one day when I’d put on my favorite dress for
school. I remember it clearly with the ruffle around the bottom and
pinafore front. It was raining and windy too, and about two blocks
from the school, my umbrella blew out of my hand and tumbled down the
sidewalk faster than I could catch it. When I got to school, I was
soaked and convinced I had ruined my favorite dress. Two of my
grandkids smiled and secretly rolled their eyes hearing the story,
two of them were attentive and giggled…and Joelle, well,
like I said, she’s only two.
I’ve
told them about my grandmas and grandpas. Gigi and Papa,
Grandpa
Sam with his CB radio in the car, and Grandma Betty with her passion
for the color pink. I’ve shared memories about their own
parents when they were their age. These topics keep them
intrigued, asking questions, giggling, and giggling. I have pictures
of family all around my house and I feel pride when I show
them
and share memories of when the pictures were each taken.
I
also talk to my grandchildren about memories of hard lessons I’ve
learned the hard way. One time I tried to walk across the top
of
my swing set when I was nine. I made it across the first time I did
it, and the second time too. But the third time wasn’t a charm
for me. I fell, and I was lucky I didn’t break anything. I
didn’t try that again. I never told my mom. She’ll know
now.
Growing
up in a town that housed an amateur circus, I didn’t give up my
daredevil ways completely. I started at six and was in the circus
until I graduated high school. The circus is where I could write a
whole book on memories. The one I share most often could have had a
tragic end. I hadn’t had an injury in circus until my last
year. I was in flying trapeze doing a trick called the ‘passing
leap’ where I swung out and the catcher caught my legs, and
another flyer then swung out and did a flip over the top of me as the
catcher turned me back to the bar. But the flyer came out of his flip
early and kicked me in the back. I went hurdling down and was going
to miss the net. By the grace of God there was a girl my age spotting
around the rig. She saw me coming and reached out and caught me under
the armpits. Even though my heels hit the concrete, I credit her for
saving my life. It could have been my head. A memory I definitely
won’t forget.
I
told my two older granddaughters my memory of the time I got
caught shoplifting when I was fifteen at a department store called
‘Airway.’ I was with my best friend, and she convinced me
that she took things all the time, and we would not get caught. Right
there while we were talking, she picked up a package of stretchy
headbands and put it in her pocket. My mouth dropped open. I looked
around, and no one had seen it. We started scoping out the store for
small things we could fit in our purses. It was exciting at the time,
but I was too terrified to try it myself. We each bought a candy bar
and as we were walking out the double doors, a woman walked out in
front of us and stopped. She marched us right back into the store
office and called the police. Even though I hadn’t taken
anything, she said I was covering my friend so that she could. You
know, after that ride in the police car to the station, I’ve
never been in a police car again. I hope telling them this story
keeps them from ever considering stealing.
I
have one grandson who was obsessed with big trucks. I decided to tell
him what I remember about driving one. When I was 22, my husband and
I were living in Texas, and he was in the Army. He had been deployed
to Korea for a year. We had only been in Texas for three months when
he left, and I did not want to stay there without him. I put my
two-year-old daughter in a big U-Haul truck with all our stuff and
bravely began the long drive back home to Indiana. I stopped at a
motel in Oklahoma for the night, and the next morning I woke up late
and was rushing around to get on the road. I pulled the truck up in
front of the motel office to give them my room key. Forgetting the
height of the truck, I pulled out and crashed into the overhang of
the motel.
These
are only a fraction of the stories about my memories I’ve told
to my kids and grandkids. I’ve touched on serious topics
too. When my 8-year-old grandson went to visit his great grandma who
he hadn’t seen because of Covid 19, she was suffering from
dementia that had progressed. He seemed to sense she wasn’t the
grammy he remembered. He was sweet and gentle with her. He had his
tablet with him and showed her pictures. He recorded himself asking
her silly questions, and she gave silly answers. I believe the whole
time he was there she was lucid. She told him that soon she would be
going to live in heaven, and that someday he could come there too.
My
son isn’t religious, so this was my grandson’s first-time
hearing about this place. Before he left, he asked me to take a
picture of them together because she was leaving for heaven. He
wanted to know where it was and if he could go. Given his age, I
decided to share the same story with him that my great grandma shared
with me.
Grandma
B’s words “Heaven isn’t so far from here. When it’s
time for me, have no fear. It's my time to go, but not time yet for
you. Go learn and play and do something new. You say your prayers, be
good for mama and dad. Heaven and I will wait for you, so don’t
you be sad.”
I
have shared memories with them about what I wanted to be when I grew
up. A writer. I remember when my first-grade teacher praised me on
our assignment to write a story about something outdoors. Mine was
called ‘What’s Above the Clouds?” She loved it and
asked my mom if she could submit it to a children’s magazine.
And it was published! That’s when I knew I wanted to be a
writer.
There
are memories we’d rather forget, but that’s for another
story. Except this one. I remember the day I was told I had this
disease. I remember the fear, the denial, and the anger. When the
kids first began to ask why I have to suddenly walk with a cane, why
I don’t go to work or drive anymore, why I can’t pick
them up or run around with them outside or jump on our trampoline, I
needed an answer in a language they could understand.
Multiple
Sclerosis is a condition that isn’t even understood by those
who have it or those who treat it. It has no cure and affects each
person who has it differently. So, I remembered a story from my
childhood. I went to my friend Laura’s house in third grade. I
was surprised when I saw her mom was in a wheelchair. Being the
inquisitive child I was, I asked her why. She said she had Multiple
Sclerosis. She used a daddy long leg spider to explain it to me. The
spiders have eight legs. Their two front legs are feelers. If they
lose one of their back legs, they can still walk. But if they lose a
front leg, they can’t find their way, they get mixed up and
lose their balance. She said since we only have two legs, we need
them both. One of her legs got sick, so now she loses her balance
easily and so she uses the wheelchair.
Whenever
my grandkids visit, I plan to share more memories. When they’re
older, I’ll even share those memories I’d rather forget.
I want them to remember Nana and remember the stories of her life. I
want one day for them to tell my stories to their own children
after I’m gone. When I have the feeling I will be remembered, I
make my best new memories with them.
Take
the time, put down your second “to do” list, make that
call later, and find a comfortable place to lie down, and let
your memories take over and overwhelm you. Share all you can.
Write them down if you like. After all we only live on through
memories.
