In the past six months one of my grandmothers turned 80 and one passed away. Even though they have completely different personalities and styles of grandparenting, I’ve learned a lot through their lives.
Most of the extended family was at my maternal grandma’s 80th birthday party this past weekend, including some of her brothers. It was fun to see that loyalty, unapologetic teasing, and the unique friendship only found within the sibling relationship don’t go away. I hope years from now Aim, Rob, and I will be entertaining our grandchildren with stories of: “Do you remember getting stuck on the rollercoaster (Aimee)” or “How about the time you tried to jump out of the window to practice fire safety (Robert)?”
Many of the other guests have known my grandmother a long time. They grew up in the same town, went to the same church, or had children who were the same age. The same thing happens when we go to the local donut shop; almost everyone seems to know Ruth Akers. It’s hard not to know her. She may not be very tall but her laughter fills a room.
Grandma’s ability to laugh is one of her most distinctive traits. Half the time I’m not even fully sure why she’s laughing. She has an inner joy that can’t help but be expressed. I come from a fairly competitive family, yet win or lose you laugh; and if you’re grandma the next game is “for the championship” until you win. She would allow us to do her make-up, always professing that she looked beautiful even though she had more on than a clown. She sings at the top of her lungs, whether it is hymns or patriotic songs. It is as if she feels anything worth singing is worth singing with all your heart.
The characteristic of living life without apprehension or self-consciousness is echoed in more than just her constant laughter and singing. I’ve met very few people in my life who are as grounded in their identity as my grandma. She knows who she is and is unapologetically so. Everything she does is based on her beliefs. I can’t think of a single time where her behavior has been hypocritical. Even people who don’t agree with her tend to respect her strength of character and her unwavering devotion. She is at the bedside of someone who is ill, donates money and time to people in need, and sees each new day as a gift from God.
My dad’s mom passed away this past spring. More than any adult I know, she had a gift for imagination and stories. It took years before I realized that the “Hundred Acre Wood” consisted of, at most, fifteen trees. She encouraged creativity in all forms and remained childishly inventive her whole life. Plays created from her infinite supply of puppets always received spectacular reviews. She was an aesthete, with an ear for music in any song played on the grotesquely out of tune piano. Cards and gifts from her were usually handmade or enhanced. The fundamental component of every room, already filled to the brim with interesting things, were books. She had a gift for teaching children to read and it is largely because of her influence, and the resulting impact on my dad, that I love to read. The written word became magical when she shared a story and many remain in my memory to this day. Each drawing and letter from her grandchildren, every essay written by a student, anything that was connected to the people she loved, she saved. Her house is filled with memories, her enduring story.
Most of the extended family was at my maternal grandma’s 80th birthday party this past weekend, including some of her brothers. It was fun to see that loyalty, unapologetic teasing, and the unique friendship only found within the sibling relationship don’t go away. I hope years from now Aim, Rob, and I will be entertaining our grandchildren with stories of: “Do you remember getting stuck on the rollercoaster (Aimee)” or “How about the time you tried to jump out of the window to practice fire safety (Robert)?”
Many of the other guests have known my grandmother a long time. They grew up in the same town, went to the same church, or had children who were the same age. The same thing happens when we go to the local donut shop; almost everyone seems to know Ruth Akers. It’s hard not to know her. She may not be very tall but her laughter fills a room.
Grandma’s ability to laugh is one of her most distinctive traits. Half the time I’m not even fully sure why she’s laughing. She has an inner joy that can’t help but be expressed. I come from a fairly competitive family, yet win or lose you laugh; and if you’re grandma the next game is “for the championship” until you win. She would allow us to do her make-up, always professing that she looked beautiful even though she had more on than a clown. She sings at the top of her lungs, whether it is hymns or patriotic songs. It is as if she feels anything worth singing is worth singing with all your heart.
The characteristic of living life without apprehension or self-consciousness is echoed in more than just her constant laughter and singing. I’ve met very few people in my life who are as grounded in their identity as my grandma. She knows who she is and is unapologetically so. Everything she does is based on her beliefs. I can’t think of a single time where her behavior has been hypocritical. Even people who don’t agree with her tend to respect her strength of character and her unwavering devotion. She is at the bedside of someone who is ill, donates money and time to people in need, and sees each new day as a gift from God.
My dad’s mom passed away this past spring. More than any adult I know, she had a gift for imagination and stories. It took years before I realized that the “Hundred Acre Wood” consisted of, at most, fifteen trees. She encouraged creativity in all forms and remained childishly inventive her whole life. Plays created from her infinite supply of puppets always received spectacular reviews. She was an aesthete, with an ear for music in any song played on the grotesquely out of tune piano. Cards and gifts from her were usually handmade or enhanced. The fundamental component of every room, already filled to the brim with interesting things, were books. She had a gift for teaching children to read and it is largely because of her influence, and the resulting impact on my dad, that I love to read. The written word became magical when she shared a story and many remain in my memory to this day. Each drawing and letter from her grandchildren, every essay written by a student, anything that was connected to the people she loved, she saved. Her house is filled with memories, her enduring story.
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