Second Chance Idol Week 4: Backwards and in Heels
The world itself has been turned backwards and head over heels, so it feels appropriate to switch things up and break the fourth wall this week. Some weeks were more on point than others, but my overall theme has been providing vignettes that indicate their mythology somewhere outside of the reality in which we live--be they subtle suggestions of magic or deep dives into a different universe.
This week, however, I want to stick with my own magical mythology that is true in my world and simply tell about the most wonderful woman I know, who could do anything forward or backwards, barefoot or in heels. I want to talk about my Gram.
Let's start with the now. She has suffered from dementia for the past eleven years, accelerating to a point where she can no longer live at home. She is often confused about where home is, the image in her head bouncing from Pittsburgh to West Virginia. She remembers my grandfather sometimes. "Bo, oh, how is he?" she will ask. We used to tell her that he died, and now we just tell her that he is well and loves her. She is often awake for days at a time and then asleep for days at a time. She floats between past and present, and music always brings her home. When all else fails, we just start to sing and she will find us in that space. "Country roads, take me home..."
If we go to the beginning, we go to West Virginia. My mom went back with her once to search in the hills where she lived for any signs of her home, but it burned down ages ago. They did, however, find bottles in the dirt and pieces of the distillery that her uncles and father had in the woods. My Gram had at least ten siblings, two of whom I have met. She was a true hill dweller in a small home funded by moonshine. My great-grandfather's name was Caramel and he caught on fire one day in a moonshine accident. She told me how he ran straight through their front door, and they were too poor to fix it. They lived with his outlined hole in the front door from then on.
My Gram's stories are Big Fish in nature where we never know which pieces are real and which have been stretched. I choose to believe every word. I believe in so many things about my Gram. She is fae; she is full of magic.
My Gram married my grandfather when she was only sixteen. She skipped school to do it, then went home and pretended nothing happened until she became eighteen. She is a mother figure to her core, but her first two pregnancies ended tragically and neither baby, boy nor girl, survived birth. She was told she would never be able to have children of her own, so they adopted a baby boy. Always one to defy all odds, she went on to carry and birth five more children, four boys and one girl--my mom.
My mom, my sisters, and I are bound tightly by our deep love for our Gram. I know everyone's gram is so special, and mine is certainly no exception. If anyone doesn't have a Gram, as soon as they meet her, she is theirs. My grandfather suffered post-traumatic stress disorder from war during a time when no one understood his plight, and this changed a kind and gentle man into a shadow of himself who was undoubtedly frightening at times. Still, my Gram loved gently and firmly. When she had her own kitchen she was a true kitchen witch, infusing love into all she created. My fondest memories in life are days spent cooking and baking with her.
She is stripped down now to her most innocent, back to the beginning; her blue eyes are often full of clouds. There is great sorrow for us, but we find solace in her shining revealed soul that bursts with music and love. "I'm so happy you came to see me," she says every time. "I love you so much."
...
This was my post for a second chance to enter the writing competition LJ Idol. Thank you for reading and I truly appreciate any support. The voting poll is available here: https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1118866.html
This week, however, I want to stick with my own magical mythology that is true in my world and simply tell about the most wonderful woman I know, who could do anything forward or backwards, barefoot or in heels. I want to talk about my Gram.
Let's start with the now. She has suffered from dementia for the past eleven years, accelerating to a point where she can no longer live at home. She is often confused about where home is, the image in her head bouncing from Pittsburgh to West Virginia. She remembers my grandfather sometimes. "Bo, oh, how is he?" she will ask. We used to tell her that he died, and now we just tell her that he is well and loves her. She is often awake for days at a time and then asleep for days at a time. She floats between past and present, and music always brings her home. When all else fails, we just start to sing and she will find us in that space. "Country roads, take me home..."
If we go to the beginning, we go to West Virginia. My mom went back with her once to search in the hills where she lived for any signs of her home, but it burned down ages ago. They did, however, find bottles in the dirt and pieces of the distillery that her uncles and father had in the woods. My Gram had at least ten siblings, two of whom I have met. She was a true hill dweller in a small home funded by moonshine. My great-grandfather's name was Caramel and he caught on fire one day in a moonshine accident. She told me how he ran straight through their front door, and they were too poor to fix it. They lived with his outlined hole in the front door from then on.
My Gram's stories are Big Fish in nature where we never know which pieces are real and which have been stretched. I choose to believe every word. I believe in so many things about my Gram. She is fae; she is full of magic.
My Gram married my grandfather when she was only sixteen. She skipped school to do it, then went home and pretended nothing happened until she became eighteen. She is a mother figure to her core, but her first two pregnancies ended tragically and neither baby, boy nor girl, survived birth. She was told she would never be able to have children of her own, so they adopted a baby boy. Always one to defy all odds, she went on to carry and birth five more children, four boys and one girl--my mom.
My mom, my sisters, and I are bound tightly by our deep love for our Gram. I know everyone's gram is so special, and mine is certainly no exception. If anyone doesn't have a Gram, as soon as they meet her, she is theirs. My grandfather suffered post-traumatic stress disorder from war during a time when no one understood his plight, and this changed a kind and gentle man into a shadow of himself who was undoubtedly frightening at times. Still, my Gram loved gently and firmly. When she had her own kitchen she was a true kitchen witch, infusing love into all she created. My fondest memories in life are days spent cooking and baking with her.
She is stripped down now to her most innocent, back to the beginning; her blue eyes are often full of clouds. There is great sorrow for us, but we find solace in her shining revealed soul that bursts with music and love. "I'm so happy you came to see me," she says every time. "I love you so much."
...
This was my post for a second chance to enter the writing competition LJ Idol. Thank you for reading and I truly appreciate any support. The voting poll is available here: https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1118866.html