(no subject)
god life is so hard right now.
Sunday, November 9th, 2008, Oleva Hastings passed away in her sleep with her daughter, my mom, holding her hand and stroking her hair. What can we learn from her? How she lived and how she died. Her travels take up four passports. Her tiny Chicago apartment is filled with a lifetime of priceless treasures. Ivory from Africa and India. A cane from the Taj Mahal. Photos of her riding elephants in India only a few years ago. Beautiful African, Russian, Indian, Islamic, Iraqi, Iranian, Bhagdadi art everywhere. Her life was expansive. She went to the University of Missouri, where I sit now, to become a journalist at a time when women were relegated to the home. Her first job was in Panama, where she lived for years reporting on the progress of the Panama Canal zone. She moved there all by herself. She used every paycheck for fine Panamanian dishes. She worked for the CIA during the red scare, sniffing out socialists. She worked as a freelance writer. Independent, always.
But when she did married, my mom was born. Oleva divorced, her ex-husband, my grandfather (from the slums of NYC), died of a heart attack while my mom was in law school at the University of Missouri. Then, Oleva traveled. She took tai chi and night classes. She saw the world about five times over. Places we wouldn't dare to go these days; she was fearless. Her life was a fight. She fought against men, politics, bigotry, her ex-husband, and her daughter. But in the whole world, her only source of true love and companionship was in my mother, her daughter.
Then, at the very end, she went on one last cruise to Germany, perhaps, no certainly, out of pride, stubborness, and that old fight. She was dressed in her finest favorite purple outfit for a night out. She went down the cruise ship's stairs and didn't get up until months later in a foreign hospital. She asked where her favorite purple outfit was. It had to be cut off. My parents travelled to Germany and then later to Chicago through ten difficult months. Her injuries from Germany were minor, but Grandma knew that without the ability to be independent and to travel, life wasn't worth living. Even before her fall in Germany, she made my mother swear repeatedly that she would never place her in a nursing home. There was no other choice. After months of therapy, she was found on her bathroom floor. She had a stroke, maybe multiple. Recovery was possible, but not worth it for her. Her free spirit, pride, and independence wouldn't live through this last humiliation of a nursing home. Her soul was crushed.
Something strange happened. She began to realize she wanted family with her. Mom travelled to see her and called daily. Mom took her photos of Daniel and I, and Grandma looked at them often, something she had detested doing before then. Mom offered to bring her to Sarasota, FL. Grandma was very excited to be near family. The arrangements were made for January of 2009 to be her moving date. She never made it. Heart failure, strokes, and lung problems interfered. She told Mom to keep all of her old resumes from when she worked. When Mom asked why, she replied: "write an obituary worthy of a journalist." She kept her old resumes all those years for that purpose.
Her attic is filled with remnants of the Great Depression era, cans of food to the ceiling. She had trunks filled with souvenirs from her extensive travels. Her secrecy and solitude are now disrupted as people sort through her belongings; much of it going to charity and only a little to the family. I'm sure that the meaning of these items will never be understood by anyone but her. Photos and deeds to property were found that no one knew about... she never told a soul.
If I may judge... the only sin my grandmother committed was in keeping all her tales and knowledge within. Her bitterness and pride kept her from ever truly expressing love for others or passing along her wisdom. That's why I'm writing this now. For future generations. Oleva Hastings had a remarkable life. I don't want it to be forgotten or lost among the rubble of everyday living. She should be cherished and acknowledged. We should all respect our elders for who they are, not for who we wish them to be. Listen to them, they are wiser than us! Our parents do more for us, sacrifice more for us than anyone else we will ever meet in life. With Oleva's passing, we lost many great stories, memories, ideas, and much wisdom. Oral tradition is important in families, so don't deny future generations of your knowledge, and don't fail to listen too. The day before my grandma died, she tried very hard to tell my mom that her red sweater was so pretty. Grandma loved red. I wish I knew more about my grandma's life than this, what fills a hardly a page, but now I have a lifetime still to learn from my own mother.
Sunday, November 9th, 2008, Oleva Hastings passed away in her sleep with her daughter, my mom, holding her hand and stroking her hair. What can we learn from her? How she lived and how she died. Her travels take up four passports. Her tiny Chicago apartment is filled with a lifetime of priceless treasures. Ivory from Africa and India. A cane from the Taj Mahal. Photos of her riding elephants in India only a few years ago. Beautiful African, Russian, Indian, Islamic, Iraqi, Iranian, Bhagdadi art everywhere. Her life was expansive. She went to the University of Missouri, where I sit now, to become a journalist at a time when women were relegated to the home. Her first job was in Panama, where she lived for years reporting on the progress of the Panama Canal zone. She moved there all by herself. She used every paycheck for fine Panamanian dishes. She worked for the CIA during the red scare, sniffing out socialists. She worked as a freelance writer. Independent, always.
But when she did married, my mom was born. Oleva divorced, her ex-husband, my grandfather (from the slums of NYC), died of a heart attack while my mom was in law school at the University of Missouri. Then, Oleva traveled. She took tai chi and night classes. She saw the world about five times over. Places we wouldn't dare to go these days; she was fearless. Her life was a fight. She fought against men, politics, bigotry, her ex-husband, and her daughter. But in the whole world, her only source of true love and companionship was in my mother, her daughter.
Then, at the very end, she went on one last cruise to Germany, perhaps, no certainly, out of pride, stubborness, and that old fight. She was dressed in her finest favorite purple outfit for a night out. She went down the cruise ship's stairs and didn't get up until months later in a foreign hospital. She asked where her favorite purple outfit was. It had to be cut off. My parents travelled to Germany and then later to Chicago through ten difficult months. Her injuries from Germany were minor, but Grandma knew that without the ability to be independent and to travel, life wasn't worth living. Even before her fall in Germany, she made my mother swear repeatedly that she would never place her in a nursing home. There was no other choice. After months of therapy, she was found on her bathroom floor. She had a stroke, maybe multiple. Recovery was possible, but not worth it for her. Her free spirit, pride, and independence wouldn't live through this last humiliation of a nursing home. Her soul was crushed.
Something strange happened. She began to realize she wanted family with her. Mom travelled to see her and called daily. Mom took her photos of Daniel and I, and Grandma looked at them often, something she had detested doing before then. Mom offered to bring her to Sarasota, FL. Grandma was very excited to be near family. The arrangements were made for January of 2009 to be her moving date. She never made it. Heart failure, strokes, and lung problems interfered. She told Mom to keep all of her old resumes from when she worked. When Mom asked why, she replied: "write an obituary worthy of a journalist." She kept her old resumes all those years for that purpose.
Her attic is filled with remnants of the Great Depression era, cans of food to the ceiling. She had trunks filled with souvenirs from her extensive travels. Her secrecy and solitude are now disrupted as people sort through her belongings; much of it going to charity and only a little to the family. I'm sure that the meaning of these items will never be understood by anyone but her. Photos and deeds to property were found that no one knew about... she never told a soul.
If I may judge... the only sin my grandmother committed was in keeping all her tales and knowledge within. Her bitterness and pride kept her from ever truly expressing love for others or passing along her wisdom. That's why I'm writing this now. For future generations. Oleva Hastings had a remarkable life. I don't want it to be forgotten or lost among the rubble of everyday living. She should be cherished and acknowledged. We should all respect our elders for who they are, not for who we wish them to be. Listen to them, they are wiser than us! Our parents do more for us, sacrifice more for us than anyone else we will ever meet in life. With Oleva's passing, we lost many great stories, memories, ideas, and much wisdom. Oral tradition is important in families, so don't deny future generations of your knowledge, and don't fail to listen too. The day before my grandma died, she tried very hard to tell my mom that her red sweater was so pretty. Grandma loved red. I wish I knew more about my grandma's life than this, what fills a hardly a page, but now I have a lifetime still to learn from my own mother.