I've Not Forgotten You

I haven't posted on this yet because I've been trying to figure out exactly what to say.

On June 2 my only living grandparent, my father's mother, turned 92-years-old.

For those of you who know me well you know that she and I have had our ups and downs. Well, mostly downs over the past 15 years.

She never was the "loving grandmother" we all have in our thoughts when we think about grandmothers.

She was the woman who had two boys who were meant to come back home to the farm and women, and girls, were to be tolerated. And tolerated only.

She gave birth to the older of those boys, my uncle, while my grandfather was overseas in World War II. In fact, my grandfather was on an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific when he was given the opportunity to return home. The story has it that he when his commanding officer told him that he could go home, but that "the war" needed him to stay for his mechanical skills he said, "Sir, I have a year old child at home I've never seen." He left the next day.

Two days later the United States bombed Japan. His air craft carrier was on its way there.

My grandmother is a hard woman. She went to college, but not before she moved from her hometown to Memphis after the death of her father to find a job and support her mother and sibling in a one-bedroom apartment.

She met my grandfather and moved to a small farming community in southwest Arkansas, where she remains today.

She worked as a librarian in the public school system--through bad weather, hard times--and put two children through college on what was then meager farm income and what is still meager public school system income.

After college, both of her children moved home to work the farm and brought wives with them.

Between her two children, they had three boys and two girls. The two girls comprised the oldest and youngest (I was the youngest) of the group, and she made it clear that the boys were her favorites. Girls were meant to be tolerated, grow up and have children. While it was never explicitly said, we were never skinny enough, tall enough, or pretty enough for her appreciation.

We were tom boys, and she didn't care for it.

I vividly remember being 17-years-old eating dinner with her one evening when she moved from her side of the table to mine to show me that I wasn't "cutting my meat properly". Never mind that I was left handed. It was wrong, and at 17, it was still to be corrected.

She was a hard woman who lived through hard times. She wasn't going to show any weakness--and to some of us that meant she never showed love either.

When my father died she blamed my mother. I can't be sure she ever really liked my mother, but she made it obviously clear to everyone close to her that any relationship with my mother was to be admonished by the family.

In the beginning it made some sense. She was upset. She was lost. She was grieving for the life of her youngest child--a child she thought would far out live her--and she blamed my mother. Of course, I took my mother's side, and consequently my somewhat tenuous relationship with my grandmother broke entirely.

It stayed that way for 9 years. We hardly spoke, and when we did I always felt accused of something. Had I "finally", and yes, she said it in those terms "finally" lost weight? Was I pulling my hair back from my face, or had I cut it shorter, because shorter hair "can make you look fat".

She was just a hard woman. All the time.

I moved back to Arkansas, and I never really thought, as much as I wanted one, we'd have a relationship. I wanted it because I knew we were more alike than we were different. I'm also hard, tough, and say things when I shouldn't.

But, I moved in with a man to whom I wasn't married. I lied to her about it for months before I realized the lie was useless--she was smarter than that--and finally stood up for myself to say "this is who I am, and it's different from who you are". Luckily, my brother stood up for me, too. Otherwise, I would still be sitting here today wishing I could talk to her.

Finally, three years after Dave and I moved to Arkansas, and three years after we've lived together, she's accepted it. She's finally accepted me for me. And it's a delightful feeling.

I miss the time we missed together, which is most of my life. She and I have both grown older, grown wiser, and while she's now at home at 92-years-old with ovarian cancer, of all things, I wish we'd recognized one another for our real personalities, our real similarities, 15 years ago.

She's hard. She's tough. And while everyone says that I get that side of me from my mother, I say, "No, I get it from my grandmother."

She's the woman still living on the farm, alone, after all these years. At 92-years-old just starting to really love us for who we are.

I hope that I can be as strong as she is, while still holding onto my soft side.

But, I hope that if I live to be her age I still have that side of me.

Because only an old bitch fights untreated cancer at 92-years-old.
L.