The air outside is heavy, expectantly weighted with the snow that is slated to fall a little later tonight. My husband stokes the fire in the fireplace while he waits for something scrumptious he’s grilling outside to finish. He’s made it for the small annual dinner party at our beloved friend’s house tonight. My son is happily, messily wrapping a present for me in the kitchen. And I, banished to my computer upstairs, with my little Jack Russell terrier snugly asleep atop my slippers, am reflecting just how grateful I am for the abundance of love in my life.
I attribute some of that abundance, and the equally welcome lack of meanness and spitefulness around me, to my grandmother’s loving guidance. She passed her natural gift for love and companion disdain for nastiness and self-absorption to my mother and her siblings, who hopefully imbued my brother, my cousins and me with their healthy outlook.
She’s been on my mind a great deal lately. I’ve spent the last several days color correcting and cleaning up old photos from my grandmother’s scrapbook. The oldest photo is from 1928. It’s of my grandfather, who’s been dead over ten years now, with two other boys, names lost to time, when they were nineteen. How strong and healthy they are, standing there with their tennis rackets, careless, happy, immortal.
Then, there’s my grandmother, almost ten years later, also nineteen, having just married my grandfather. He was passing through her Texas town, caught a glimpse of her on the tennis court, and, six weeks later, they were married.
She is beautiful, incandescent with excitement, and it is easy to see how she caught his eye. He is dapper, confident, mischievous, and probably more sophisticated than the average small town Texas boy. How ecstatic they look. How in love they are.
From that accidental meeting, that six week courtship,a lifelong love affair emerges in these pictures – along with, over the years, my mother, aunts and uncle. Interspersed between the births, babies and toddlers are pictures of my grandparents swimming, playing tennis, and making mischievous faces at each other. An entire life unfolds as I wind my way through the photos – a happy life, centered around family, the outdoors, music, and love. A good life.
Nothing in this scrapbook would ever make the news. There’s nothing particularly notable, definitely nothing scandalous. There’s simply a well-lived life and a series of good choices, lovingly and intelligently made.
She raised her family in an atmosphere of unconditional love along with respect for their elders. She and my grandfather encouraged their children to excel in everything they tried, develop healthy and interesting lifelong habits, never stop learning, and laugh at themselves early and often.
Their love story has translated into an unbroken series of love stories. Each of us, child and grandchild, has been lucky enough to find our soul mate. Each of us has been raised in such a way that we’ve also been able to do the occasionally difficult and selfless work necessary to sustain a wonderful lifelong romance. Those of us with children have passed our grandparents loving values along. Those without children have become particularly beloved, trusted cousin/uncles/aunts for the young ones. When things are bad for any of us, we are there for each other.
My family has an unbreakable trust – we never let each other down. What a legacy.
My grandmother is in the twilight of her life. Her formidable intellect falters on occasion. Her stamina is not so robust. Her innate, natural sunniness is clouded at times by the cruel and evil miasma of dementia. But she is still the most beautiful woman I have ever met. It will always be easy to differentiate between the coarseness of this illness that is stealing the quality of her final years and the fineness of the woman I know, love and respect so very much.
My New Year’s resolution is to be more like my grandmother. Appreciate. Love. Always.