8/27/03

grandmothering - some things change, many don't

Susan Martin

My two grandchildren visited recently.  In the emptiness that always follows their departure, I sank down in an easy chair with mingled loneliness and relief.

My nostalgia led me to remembering my own grandmother.

We lived 30 miles apart.  Considering the cars, roads and times, we usually made the trip only on holidays and special occasions.  Granddad came to town if he had jury duty or special interests.  Grandmamma came more rarely.  Neither drove a car.

My granddaughters live four hours away by the speed limit, and we think it is a long time apart if more than a month goes by.

Grandmamma would stand at the gate and laugh as we drove in.  She stood there with Granddad and wiped tears as we left—it seemed such a distance when we were apart.

A widow, I stand at the crest of the hill, waving until I see and hear the car go by, honking on the highway below.

I can be persuaded to do almost anything, depending on the methods they use.  My grandmamma’s middle name could have been “firm.”  No child in his right mind would plead once she refused.

I know that I can go only so far, even in my own kitchen, in offering treats for breakfast.  Their mother is strict about nutrition.  The line stops at one brownie from the cookie jar or pastry from the deli.

Grandmamma gave me leftover custard pie for breakfast.  The ultimate was homemade bread spread with freshly churned butter.  This was covered with sugar, coffee and cream.  And my mother never said a word, though I knew it would be useless to ask for that dish at home.

She stood on a foot stool to reach the wall telephone.  The system covered their extended neighborhood.  One ring was designated for the whole neighborhood—in case of an emergency or an upcoming square dance.  We kids could use the phone briefly to see if a cousin could walk through the fields to play.

I have a phone on my bedside table and talk to my grandchildren almost every evening before bedtime—not exactly briefly.

She had a rocker by the kitchen window where she rocked any nearby grandchild.  The latest kittens were outside the window, not understanding why they were not in her ample lap, snuggled against her coverall apron front.

I don’t wear aprons, and my grandkids don’t want to be rocked—I don’t have enough pillows.  And kittens would catch birds and require my staying home to care for them.

We were loved and given attention by grandparents.  But it was at the grownups’ choosing of time, place and manner.  It’s an understatement to say the system is more casual today.

We went after the cows, petted the horses, helped her feed the chickens, gather eggs, pick hollyhocks to make dolls, mix the bluing in the wash water, and later carry the water to the flower beds.

My two know farm animals through a petting zoo, and the main thing they share with my memories is the chigger bite.

The attic at Grand mama’s house was a retreat.  It held good smelling bags of dried corn and fruit, plus old trunks of treasures and old magazines to explore.

I have no attic, and the basement is a poor substitute.  Happily, the little girls don’t know that.  They ride the exercise bike, move furniture and bounce on the beds—which is forbidden upstairs.

Grandmamma made fancy doll dresses and bits of doll underwear trimmed in crocheted lace.  I try to add to the Barbie “things” from time to time.  They are pleased, although I note they don’t like sorting all those tiny garments.

We washed our feet in a tub of water she had heated in the afternoon summer sun.  My granddaughters hop into the bathtub and choose which of the good smelling things they will use from Granny’s stash—most of which they have given me.

Grandmamma used to let us play the victrola, teaching us to be very careful in handling the records.  My little girls teach me how to play a game on my computer.

Grandmamma provided the raw material for all sorts of games, and was always ready for a game of Hull Gull after supper.  I sit on the floor to play Barbie, but the action had better not last too long.

Despite the change in times, the end of the day brings grand parenting home: Hugs and kisses.  “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” “Don’t let the big toe bite the little toe.”  “Sweet dreams.”  “I love you to the moon and back.”  “But I love YOU to the sun and around the world and back.”

Some things never change.

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© University of Kansas Medical Center, Center on Aging, August, 2003.