When the Smoke Clears

My grandmother passed away this week. The sadness I feel is not for her passing, though I will miss her, rather it is a selfish sadness that I cannot be at her funeral. The Army won’t let me, and the official message about it got to me much too late to do anything about it. I’m not the last surviving close relative. My dad is still alive, but that’s about it.

As a matter of fact, her funeral is happening as I write this and link to other posts, other letters from the past. I am glad she passed on peacefully.

I would very much like to have been able to be around those from her home town who would share stories about her.

But she died in her own home of over 30 years, in a place of comfort as she lay down in the morning to rest. It was the bedroom, though not the exact same bed in which my grandfather died many years prior, asleep next to her.

I was her only grandchild. I was spoiled in some ways, but in others it wasn’t so great to be the focus of so much criticism. When I was younger it bothered me. As I grew older I saw it for what it was… her love for me. And it was just her way.

Make no mistake, she lived a wonderful life and that is why I do not mourn.

I do not need words of comfort. I celebrate.

In recent years I was able to get her to talk far more freely about her past, and it was fascinating. She was deeply religious and lived her faith through her deeds, not just her words, so finding out about her early life was great.

My grandmother’s life was about service, though we did not always see eye to eye. I am not so altruistic. When I do things for others it’s because it makes me feel good. She would do for others regardless of how it made her feel. Martyrdom was an occasional pastime.

Later in life she became a teacher, earning her master’s degree. She then taught for over 25 years at the same private Christian school, almost always third grade.

She also taught Sunday School. She volunteered much time with her church.

Most remarkable, even in her final days she still remembered every single one of her students. She was the one who was so tough on them, but did it in ways that helped them, even if it wouldn’t be allowed in a public school classroom. She put a cardboard box around 3 sides of a student’s desk once to keep her focussed on the board instead of others. One of her former students wrote to me recently that she remembers my grandmother telling her, “Show me a cluttered desk and I’ll show you a cluttered mind.” It stuck with her ever since. My grandmother had no problem smacking a child’s hand with a ruler.

But most of her students still say she is the one who turned their lives around. The principal of the school where she taught is a former student who supposedly had a learning disability when he was very young. She attributed it to self-discipline and applied a great deal of her own. But she always did it with love.

“Your dad thinks I’m too critical,” she confessed to me not too long ago. “He’s always acting that way. What do you think?”

Clearly a trap, but she taught me honesty. “Yes, you often are, Mamaw.”

“Well I didn’t think I was bad,” she said.

“Oh, yes you can be. Remember there was a time when I refused to talk to you for a year? There was a reason.”

“So do you think there is something I can do now? Maybe I can learn…” I started laughing. “What is it?”

“Mamaw, you are over 80 years old. You’ve been this way your whole life. It doesn’t bother me now, but I think it’s a little late for you to worry about going to a self-help seminar. At this point, you’re pretty well set in your ways.”

For a second she looked offended, but then she started laughing along with me.

And she (along with the regular work of my mother) gave me the greatest gift I have: my love of learning. It has never stopped. I was raised with books in my hands from the time I was an infant and I cannot imagine life without them. I get a little uneasy in a room that has no books. It does not make sense to me.

She started my love of reading, my love of stories, my understanding that the written word carries a special quality, almost magical. In my bedroom at her house there was a deep drawer filled to the top with children’s books. I started reading before I started school. She recalled the first night I read to her. She said I was 3 when I said, “Mamaw, you always read to me. Tonight I’m going to read to you.” And apparently I did although I was probably a little older, though. Ever distrustful of good things, she started quizzing me after I was done, pointing to individual words, telling me to say them. I did.

I still remember that book and the illustrations: The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night.

And it could not have happened without her.

I’ve even passed this love along, volunteering time to work with children, often third graders, on their reading and mentoring to them. One of the kids I tutored years ago started college this fall, on his way to law school. He says he owes some of his success to me. I told him it was actually my grandmother.

When I get back to the States I will go visit the cemetery where she is interred alongside my grandfather.

I think I’ll take a book along.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS