The Grandmother Diaries: I Opened the Box

I finally jumped into Pandora’s box.  I pulled out a handful of Gran’s journals today.  I’m starting with 1987 – as it seems to be the earliest I found.   Just the first page brings back memories.  It's yellow, curled a little and smells faintly of cigarettes.  She lists the times of her favorite  TV shows – Jack Benny, Hollywood Squares, Barney Miller, Lucy.  I remember watching them with her, she on her green fuzzy swivel chair with the table and lamp beside it.  A half chewed pencil, a crossword book and an overfilled ashtray.  I sat on the brown shag carpet, watching with her and sniggering as she shouted her version of explosives at the screen during the game shows. (Her version because she was a lady. And ladies don't use bad language.)

She would have been retired for a few years by this point - spending her days doing crosswords, having lunch with her lady friends, watching TV and going bowling with the league.  We spent a bit of time with her - we were older by this point and likely able to spend time on our own at home, but for the longer periods Gran's was where we went.

Building Strong Children

I love those little revalations that come with spending time with family.  I'm just back from a week's holiday in Canada - my mother, her dog, and my niece joined us.  My mom reminded me of a number of things that happened when I was a child.  And one little comment sent me spinning.  She suggested I had to feel a bit sorry for my father, because after his father died, he was the one who had to deal with his mother's anxieties and quirks.

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you know that I have my own little anxieties and quirks.  But I was struck by the fact that my father had had to deal with his mother in that way, then I had to deal with his anxieites.  And when he was out of my life, I sought someone who had an even more complicated set of anxieties.  And I tried to fix them, because I couldn't fix my father - any more than he could fix his mother.  And somehow, any more than he could prevent himself from passing some from of those anxieties on to me.