Grandma died near the end my senior year of high school after a long battle with cancer. As the oldest grandchild and granddaughter, I inherited two things from Grandma: her wedding ring and a silver necklace given to her the year she was born.
When I got married only a few months after her death, my husband placed Grandma's wedding ring on my finger as Grandpa officiated. I wore the necklace rather reluctantly, only because it meant so much to my mother. The filigree daisy pattern had a diamond in the center. The chain was tarnished and tangled.
After our wedding I placed the necklace in a jewelry box and, quite honestly, I didn't think much about it for years. Then two things happened in rapid succession that made me reconsider the necklace: My older daughter, Susan, gave birth to her first child, Christine, and my marriage of twenty-four years ended.
Going through my things in the process of the divorce, I came across the necklace. For a minute I couldn't even remember where I had gotten it. Then I remembered Grandma. I bought a new chain to replace the tangled and tarnished one, and, had the pendant cleaned at the jewelers. I was amazed at the beauty of the little necklace. As I took off the wedding ring, I began wearing the necklace, and, I lovingly recalled my grandmother.
I saw my granddaughter often and baby-sat from the time I finished teaching until her mother came home from work at midnight, five days a week. She grew from an infant to a toddler to a little girl, and she loved the “flower necklace,” as she called it. Since she is my oldest granddaughter, I let her know that, just as I had gotten the necklace from my grandmother, someday the “pretty flower” would be hers.
Christine is nearly twelve years old now, and growing into a young lady. I'm not going to wait until I die to pass this legacy on to her. The necklace will be one hundred years old the year Christine turns nineteen. I will pass her great-great-grandmother's necklace on to her, knowing she, too, will look back on happy, poignant memories.
Carol Spahr
Gram and her sister, Acq, were close in age, and the bond between them was so strong they visited each other almost daily. But when she was ninety-three, Gram's health deteriorated, and she finally became homebound. Although they lived only sixteen miles apart, visits were no longer possible for them; they were both too ill to make the trip. I was privileged to be my grandmother's major caregiver, and I knew how desperately they missed each other and longed to be together again. It was always on my mind.
One cold winter day, Gram sat up in bed and said, “I want to see my sister.” She was still weak from her last hospitalization; her face was pale and drawn from the weight she had lost.
“You can see her in the spring,” I soothed.
Her eyes widened. “No, that's too long.”
I knew Gram's time on earth was limited. She and Acq needed to see each other . . . but how? Then I had an idea. The next morning, I brought out the video camera.
“Gram, you can talk to your sister through this.” I showed her how it worked. She threw her head back, laughed a little and said, “Okay.” She went into the bathroom, washed her face and combed her hair. Then she held the camera and looked deeply into the lens. Gram spoke softly, “Acq, I'm too sick to come over and see you. . . . I miss you and we will be together again soon.” Gram smiled. “When the garden is ready, I'll send you some of my tomatoes.”
Her eyes sparkled and her voice became stronger. “Bye-bye, Acq.”
I drove over to visit my aunt and told her I had a message for her. I helped her into the bedroom, where a picture of her and Gram sat next to the bed. I handed her the camera and turned it on. As soon as Gram started talking, my aunt sat up straight, excited, and answered her back. “Lizzie, you look good. I have missed you too, it's been so long.” She sat back and listened to the rest of Gram's message to her. She looked at me as she wiped a tear from her eye. “If I talk, will Lizzie hear me?”
I told her yes, and she combed her hair just like Gram had, while displaying a renewed sense of spirit. When I pressed the record key, Aunt Acq's voice grew stronger. “Hi, Lizzie, it was nice to see you today.” She turned to me. “Maybe she can't hear me.” She held the camera with both hands and shouted, “I'd like some of your Italian beans from the garden, too.”
We walked to her closet and opened the door while I continued to film. “You know my grandson Gerry's getting married in a few weeks. This is my new dress and shoes. I hope I'll be well enough to go.”
As I left, I told my aunt I would return in a few days. I was not sure if either of them truly understood this method of communicating, but Aunt Acq hugged me and said, “Thanks for bringing Lizzie here to me.”
Gram and I settled in on the couch, next to a picture of the sisters from last summer's family picnic. I draped my arm over her shoulder and showed her the whole video. When she saw herself talking, she giggled with excitement, “That's me!” We both laughed at the same time. When Aunt Acq started talking, Gram's eyes brightened and her whole face lit up. She reacted the same way my aunt had, holding the camera up close. “Hi Acq, it's good to see you again.”
When Gram said that and looked up at me, tears streamed down my cheeks. At dinner that night, Gram said, “It was nice to see Acq today, she looks pretty good.”
For the next few months they “visited” each other regularly. While they were never physically together again, they were “close” to the end.
Paula Mauqiri Tindall
G
od gave us memories that we might have roses
in December.
James M. Barrie
It's difficult to watch a loved one wither. It's even harder to dismantle a life.
That's what I did today.
I disassembled the last bastion of my grandparents' home. Time is a cruel mistress. Grand is gone and Mammy is going. Two years ago, she moved into my parent's house after it became evident she could no longer live alone.
Last summer, we had cleaned out Mammy and Grand's house in a nostalgic whirl. We didn't just clean out the house. We decided which pieces of the puzzle that was my grandparents' lives were worth keeping and which were disposable. We passed judgment on every napkin, magazine and photograph. We dismembered their lives one item at a time. Every item brought a tale to mind. Some things we couldn't look atâwe just quietly wrapped and packed away. Furniture was divvied upâdining room set to my brother, crystal to Mom, an old wardrobe for me. We decided what to keep, where it should go and what to do with the rest. Mom and I dove into the task like we were just spring cleaning, but when no one was looking, we'd stop and stare at nothing, trying to think nothing. It's the thinking that leads to remembering, and remembering is what gets you. As quickly as it hit, it was gone, and newspaper flurried over vases and lamps once more.
In a town where folks know what you're having for dinner before you do, it was no time at all before someone made an offer on the house. Months passed before Mom acted on it, but to the citizens of Honey Grove, it was a done deal. Once more, we trudged to Mammy's to clean out what was left. Mom told more than one curious neighbor that she didn't grow up in this house.
But I did,
someone tiny inside reminded me. So there's no sentimental commitment to keep it, Mom explained. She was, as the saying goes, putting on. I knew she was upset.
We sold it a few weeks ago to someone Mom knew all her life. He's going to tear it down and build a new house on the comfy corner lot. Perfectly sensible.
But today I went back.
Not out of curiosity or a trip down memory lane. I went to salvage the kitchen cabinets and inside doors for a workshop we're building. I got more than I bargained for.
As I pried fifty years of paint out of sixty-year-old screws so I could take the doorknobs off the doors, I stopped. Just stared at nothing and saw everything.
I saw myself running through the hallways, my sharp heels banging like cannon fire on the hardwood floors, my squealing little brother chasing after me. Behind him loped Grand, bare-chested and potbellied, whooping and hollering after us.
I remember the feel of the sheets, how they always felt cooler in Mammy and Grand's un-air-conditioned little house than in my waiting bed at home. The soft glow of the ship-shaped TV lamp we used as a night lightâthe very same lamp that now sits on my son's shelf, illuminating him as he dreams.
Standing in the rubble of what had been a large part of my childhood, I shrugged it off and marched inside, determined to get what I came for. My husband pried loose the cabinets with his trusty rusty crowbar while I piled up the broken remnants of shattered lives. He'd catch me standing around in a stupor every now and then, and had the sense not to bother me. Card games, dominoes, snacks and countless happy moments danced in my head as I stood in the dissected kitchen. I remembered the smell of Mammy's famous chocolate pie, and if I squinted just right and peeked into the dining room, I could see Grand sitting at the table finishing off one full half of it. I watched him get up, rub his belly, smile at me and walk into the living room. He sat down in his favorite chairâthe one with his scrawny butt print mashed into it.
The one we sold last summer.
When I pulled out one of the sliding pastry boards in the countertop, I found a treasure beyond words. On the wood written in my brother's childish scrawl was “fart on Mammy.” It was too much. I laughed and cried.
I stumbled around the house, supposedly making sure we didn't leave anything behind. We won't walk these halls again. Pretty soon no one will. The house will be torn down to make way for a new one. In my mind, I heard the hum of the box fan that sat in the window in the front bedroom at night. I felt myself squirm under the cool sheets, Mammy perched beside me, giggling like a child. My brother and Grand snoring in the other room. I wasn't leaving it behind. I just needed to see it again to make sure I could take the smells, the sounds, the love with me. I got what I came for.
K. K. Choate
Jack Canfield is one of America's leading experts in the development of human potential and personal effectiveness. He is both a dynamic, entertaining speaker and a highly sought-after trainer. Jack has a wonderful ability to inform and inspire audiences toward increased levels of self-esteem and peak performance. Jack most recently released a book for success entitled
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In the area of human potential, no one is more respected than Mark Victor Hansen. For more than thirty years, Mark has focused solely on helping people from all walks of life reshape their personal vision of what's possible. His powerful messages of possibility, opportunity and action have created powerful change in thousands of organizations and millions of individuals worldwide.
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