Tomorrow is my grandmother's 96th birthday. She's been very ill for the past year or so, with a rapidly advancing case of senile dementia. This, after an incredibly vivacious, outgoing, life-loving, 95 other years.
My favourite thing about my grandmother is that, if you asked her, she would say the happiest day of her life was not the classic: not her wedding and not the births of any of her four children. "No, abuelita?" Meh... no. It was her first communion, and she can tell you *everything* they served to eat that day. It was around 1918.
My grandmother, abuelita is what I call her, has enjoyed a love affair with food for most of her life. Any memory -trips to Spain, vacations, special occasions- is linked mostly to what she ate, and you could never go anywhere with her -when she was still capable of moving around by herself- without stopping for some pastries.
Once I told her I liked fried chicken and french fries. I must have been 11. From then on, and until I became vegetarian, she always had homemade fried chicken and real french fries especially for me when I visited. And I could never go to her house without being offered, actually *pressed* to accept, something to eat. If you accepted a glass of wine, tuna salad and bread, you were in for a surprise when that turned out to be the appetizer and there were still two more courses plus coffee and dessert left! Everyone knows I'm not much of an eater, but how can you say no to this kind of love?
This is sort of the cute side to her, but more importantly, I never felt I had had much of an emotional education until I really got to know her. I have obviously known my grandmother my entire life. My mother took me to Chile when I was 2 weeks old and I visited about every 3 years. But until my 20s, she just seemed so different from us, my nuclear family, that I could only see her caring as meddling and out-of-place. We were cold, dysfunctional, broken and silent. She was talkative, demanding, opinionated, fulls of compulsory hugs and kisses. We were stripped bare and she was ornate.
I started talking to her, just the two of us, mostly listening. I discovered I loved listening to her. Her stories and their related opinions (about morality, the demise of family values, the leftist conspiracy, the benefits of authoritarian rule, the importance of marrying young and having babies) were not about me. I think this is what made it easier for me to listen without judging or becoming defensive than if, say, I felt she had some power over me, like my parents would. I had never given her any power, so we were free to relate to each other as independent souls, but I did end up giving her power, because I fell in love with her.
I noticed that our eyes were the same. I have memorized the wrinkles on her chubby hands, the chipped red nail polish, the costume jewellery rings. I should interrupt myself here and explain that when I fall in love, it is invariably with the so-called ugly parts of a person. I'm not interested in perfection, it's disturbing. I like the cracks. In her case, I'm familiar with the rolled up knee-high stockings, the worn out pumps, the way you can see her scalp through her thin perm. I recognize the way she pulls herself out of a chair, how she looks for someone to support her weight. She wipes the bread crumbs off the table like a bad habit. She spills food on her chest and stains her dresses. She would kill me if she read this.
When I broke up with my fiancé, though, I knew I could tell her the truth about why I could not get back together with him, ever. I knew I could trust her with this painful information I had. You don't want to hide pain from a woman who's lost a grown child and a husband; who was born in a city of 300,000 people and now lives in the same city with 6 million other people. I learned what perspective is when she told me about a boyfriend she had who was killed in some war. She said it like it was no longer important, in the grander scheme of her life. An anecdote of things long past. She gained my trust when I decided to move out of my mother's apartment against all Chilean societal convention, and although she disagreed with the decision she agreed to support me in it. She always enquired about my happiness and insisted I make it a priority. She told me the secret to her own happiness was "accepting what you're given in life" and I try to live that way.
Besides her eyes, which I haven't seen in almost three years, I noticed something else I inherited from her. We can cry over anything at the drop of a hat. (If you didn't know this about me, you can thank my mother for all lessons in stoic self-control). We are emotional beings, thrown into an unfair world that will leave us behind if we don't run along side it, and so we run, and we don't ask too many questions, we just run, sometimes we cry, and we make sure as many of our loved ones are somewhere near us as possible.
My favourite thing about my grandmother is that, if you asked her, she would say the happiest day of her life was not the classic: not her wedding and not the births of any of her four children. "No, abuelita?" Meh... no. It was her first communion, and she can tell you *everything* they served to eat that day. It was around 1918.
My grandmother, abuelita is what I call her, has enjoyed a love affair with food for most of her life. Any memory -trips to Spain, vacations, special occasions- is linked mostly to what she ate, and you could never go anywhere with her -when she was still capable of moving around by herself- without stopping for some pastries.
Once I told her I liked fried chicken and french fries. I must have been 11. From then on, and until I became vegetarian, she always had homemade fried chicken and real french fries especially for me when I visited. And I could never go to her house without being offered, actually *pressed* to accept, something to eat. If you accepted a glass of wine, tuna salad and bread, you were in for a surprise when that turned out to be the appetizer and there were still two more courses plus coffee and dessert left! Everyone knows I'm not much of an eater, but how can you say no to this kind of love?
This is sort of the cute side to her, but more importantly, I never felt I had had much of an emotional education until I really got to know her. I have obviously known my grandmother my entire life. My mother took me to Chile when I was 2 weeks old and I visited about every 3 years. But until my 20s, she just seemed so different from us, my nuclear family, that I could only see her caring as meddling and out-of-place. We were cold, dysfunctional, broken and silent. She was talkative, demanding, opinionated, fulls of compulsory hugs and kisses. We were stripped bare and she was ornate.
I started talking to her, just the two of us, mostly listening. I discovered I loved listening to her. Her stories and their related opinions (about morality, the demise of family values, the leftist conspiracy, the benefits of authoritarian rule, the importance of marrying young and having babies) were not about me. I think this is what made it easier for me to listen without judging or becoming defensive than if, say, I felt she had some power over me, like my parents would. I had never given her any power, so we were free to relate to each other as independent souls, but I did end up giving her power, because I fell in love with her.
I noticed that our eyes were the same. I have memorized the wrinkles on her chubby hands, the chipped red nail polish, the costume jewellery rings. I should interrupt myself here and explain that when I fall in love, it is invariably with the so-called ugly parts of a person. I'm not interested in perfection, it's disturbing. I like the cracks. In her case, I'm familiar with the rolled up knee-high stockings, the worn out pumps, the way you can see her scalp through her thin perm. I recognize the way she pulls herself out of a chair, how she looks for someone to support her weight. She wipes the bread crumbs off the table like a bad habit. She spills food on her chest and stains her dresses. She would kill me if she read this.
When I broke up with my fiancé, though, I knew I could tell her the truth about why I could not get back together with him, ever. I knew I could trust her with this painful information I had. You don't want to hide pain from a woman who's lost a grown child and a husband; who was born in a city of 300,000 people and now lives in the same city with 6 million other people. I learned what perspective is when she told me about a boyfriend she had who was killed in some war. She said it like it was no longer important, in the grander scheme of her life. An anecdote of things long past. She gained my trust when I decided to move out of my mother's apartment against all Chilean societal convention, and although she disagreed with the decision she agreed to support me in it. She always enquired about my happiness and insisted I make it a priority. She told me the secret to her own happiness was "accepting what you're given in life" and I try to live that way.
Besides her eyes, which I haven't seen in almost three years, I noticed something else I inherited from her. We can cry over anything at the drop of a hat. (If you didn't know this about me, you can thank my mother for all lessons in stoic self-control). We are emotional beings, thrown into an unfair world that will leave us behind if we don't run along side it, and so we run, and we don't ask too many questions, we just run, sometimes we cry, and we make sure as many of our loved ones are somewhere near us as possible.
7 comments:
Que post más lindo.... yo perdí a mis dos grandes abuelas... una este año... fue muy triste, porque eran dos mujeres espectaculares... y eran mis dos queridísimas abuelas.
Casi lloro jaja!! que ganas de haber verbalizado igualmente algo para ellas.
Gracias también.
Me hiciste pensar mucho en cosas que me encanta recordar de vez en cuando.
v.
beautiful! happy birthday abuelita! is she a leo?
Isabelita, que finura la tuya, al escribir y describir todo esto...que ganas de leerselo a tu abuelita, se sentiria tan orgullosa de ti...estas cosas con para guardarlas para la vida...que en 30 o mas anos re-leas esto y te vuelvas a enconttrar con ella..eso va a ser el mejor regalo..gracias por compartirlo!!!
No, my pet. The teacher of all things under self-control, my mother, is a Leo, but my grandmother is a watery Cancer. :)
Prima
acabo de leer el post, está muy lindo. Los recuerdos y las cosas que quedan de ella en nosotros, son una bonita forma de tenerla cerca en estos momentos en que nosotras estamos lejos. Yo me acuerdo de ella cada vez que lloro por cualquier tontera. Mi abuelita veía la tele y se emocionaba y a mi siempre me fascinó esa facilidad para conectarse con las emociones de ella. Espero poder heredarselas a los que vendrán
besotes
Me da tanta pena pena ver el otoño de la Sra María.
Siempre fue genio y figura, la realidad era solo una inconveniencia. el mundo debería ser como debería ser, y esa irrelevante realidad que lo desviaba (al mundo), jamás desviaba a la Sra María.
Es imposible no quererla, la podemos criticar por anticuada, por sus ídolos politicos, etc. pero nunca podremos criticarla por no ser ella, por no ser congruentemente honesta.
Recuerdo como la asustabamos dejando que Isabel de 2 años a la sazón, manejara el volante de la cucaracha Volkswagen en la curva de Dr Penfield antes de que se junte con Pine Ave. (una curva espantosa, maneje quien maneje). ¡pero una enana de dos años! Isabel simpre ha sido precoz, excepto para saltar a los lagos.
La Sra María tambien sufría porque sus padres (disfuncionales, según She-who-must-not-be-named) le daban leche fria en la mamadera. La Sra María con cariño infinito le preparó a Isabel una mamadera con leche caliente "comme it faut". Por fin leche caliente para para la pobre nietecita maltratada. (Esto está como Casey at the Bat). Isabel toma la mamadera. Isabel acerca la mamaderaa su boquita. Isabel toma el pezón de la mamadera en la boca.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Isabel tira lejos y con asco la botella
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
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