LJ Idol: I Believe in Stories (Week 8)
therealljidol entry of the week: "I believe in..."
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I believe in preserving lives through stories. Some of us are blessed knowing the sweetest story-tellers ever.
This past August, I visited my grandmother in her huge, drafty house in New Wilmington, Pennsylvania. I stepped across the cobble-stoned walkway amidst twittering birds to reach her door. Gram stood with open arms, trembling with happiness upon seeing me. She said "you cheer me so much when you come to my house!" and gave me a huge hug. I couldn't believe she would be 94 years old by the next month. Send her back in time a few decades. I haven't had enough time to fully enjoy her.
Gram asked me about my boyfriend, who I had moved from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to live together. "D'you think you'll marry him?"
I nodded. "We don't talk about it much, but it's going in that direction. I know that neither of us want anything fussy."
My Gram took a deep breath. I paused. She was shifting into story-telling mode, and I needed to catch her words as carefully as butterflies.
"I knew your father's father since I was 13 years old," Gram told me. I leaned forward in my chair, picking up french-fries idly in my fingers. "We sang duets in the church. Every Sunday, I'd go home with him and his sisters after church, and then we would return to church together all in a group. When we were old enough to date, that's what we did, on and off, for about 8 or 9 years. Everyone knew we would get married someday. But we didn't want to hurry things. We didn't talk about it.
"The youngest of us was Goldie. She was seeing an older man. And one day, it was discovered she was pregnant. So of course the two wanted to get married so the baby could have its father's proper name.
"It was one evening I was sitting at home when my Raymond showed up in the doorway. 'Goldie's getting married at the court-house. She wanted you there with her, and me, too,' he informed Gram. Well, I found my shoes and walked to the court-house with Raymond. But the people there would not let Goldie get married without her parents' permission. She was only 17 years old, after all. And her man was 21. Goldie pleaded with them to let them marry. 'I'm having a baby soon, and I want to be married before it happens!' she exclaimed. But it was all in vain.
"Around this time, Raymond sidled up to Gram and said,
'Hey, as long as we're here, how about we get married?'"
I laughed. "Aw, Gram, that's not very romantic!" Gram chuckled and nodded. "So what did you say to him?"
Gram smiled. "I said, 'Well, I don't see why not. I got nothin' else to do today.'
"So Goldie ran across the street to the five and dime and bought me a ring so I could marry Raymond right then. It wouldn't have been right without a ring! It was barely worth a thing but it did its job. I didn't need nothin' fancy. And that's how we got married."
Have I ever mentioned how wonderfully exciting my Gram is? I love her spontaneous nature. My dad must have picked up on it, too--a hot day when Mom returned home from work, she shut the door to change clothes when she happened to notice the ugly yellow-brown owl hanging on the door as always. But this time, Dad had scrawled, "Will you marry me?" across the notepad glued to its chest. Two weeks later, the two married on a Monday afternoon, driving to Sea World for their honeymoon. When I had asked Dad why they had such a short engagement, he just shrugged and said, "Why not? Once we knew, why wait? Besides, it got everyone to shut up," he smiled. And to think, Gram never went through an engagement, and she didn't marry in a church like I always imagined she had. It's amazing the things you learn when you tap a story-telling vein on a summer evening.
I remembered attending a family reunion with Miss Gram several years ago and snapping photos of her. We had all hopped a fence leading to the M___ homestead, all buildings remaining intact. Gram shuffled towards one with great labor. "This is where Raymond and I went on our honeymoon! Then we lived here for a while." I blinked and tried to imagine the hunks of broken boards housing my Gram and her husband, but I couldn't. I envisioned them huddled among the debris, clutching each other for dear life against the cold. In retrospect, I'm sure it was a cozy little home with not so many gaps between the walls. But the tenderness, the loyalty and compassion all remain to fill in the cracks.
My grandfather died in the 1950s. After celebrating what he told my dad was "the best Christmas ever," he hopped into his semi-truck to deliver a load to Delaware. His truck slid on some ice and flew off the road into a creek. The cab burst into flames and Raymond had died instantly. Gram did not drive to the morgue to identify the body. "I want to remember him when he was alive," she explained to the coroner.
I like to remember loved ones when they're alive, too. While stories keep people alive long after they've left this earth, we should never take anyone for granted while they're still here with us. Life can vanish like a snuffed candle. We need to create these stories now. We need to seize our loved ones like we seize the day.
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(If you like this entry, vote for me here!)
-----------------------------------------------------
I believe in preserving lives through stories. Some of us are blessed knowing the sweetest story-tellers ever.
This past August, I visited my grandmother in her huge, drafty house in New Wilmington, Pennsylvania. I stepped across the cobble-stoned walkway amidst twittering birds to reach her door. Gram stood with open arms, trembling with happiness upon seeing me. She said "you cheer me so much when you come to my house!" and gave me a huge hug. I couldn't believe she would be 94 years old by the next month. Send her back in time a few decades. I haven't had enough time to fully enjoy her.
Gram asked me about my boyfriend, who I had moved from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to live together. "D'you think you'll marry him?"
I nodded. "We don't talk about it much, but it's going in that direction. I know that neither of us want anything fussy."
My Gram took a deep breath. I paused. She was shifting into story-telling mode, and I needed to catch her words as carefully as butterflies.
"I knew your father's father since I was 13 years old," Gram told me. I leaned forward in my chair, picking up french-fries idly in my fingers. "We sang duets in the church. Every Sunday, I'd go home with him and his sisters after church, and then we would return to church together all in a group. When we were old enough to date, that's what we did, on and off, for about 8 or 9 years. Everyone knew we would get married someday. But we didn't want to hurry things. We didn't talk about it.
"The youngest of us was Goldie. She was seeing an older man. And one day, it was discovered she was pregnant. So of course the two wanted to get married so the baby could have its father's proper name.
"It was one evening I was sitting at home when my Raymond showed up in the doorway. 'Goldie's getting married at the court-house. She wanted you there with her, and me, too,' he informed Gram. Well, I found my shoes and walked to the court-house with Raymond. But the people there would not let Goldie get married without her parents' permission. She was only 17 years old, after all. And her man was 21. Goldie pleaded with them to let them marry. 'I'm having a baby soon, and I want to be married before it happens!' she exclaimed. But it was all in vain.
"Around this time, Raymond sidled up to Gram and said,
'Hey, as long as we're here, how about we get married?'"
I laughed. "Aw, Gram, that's not very romantic!" Gram chuckled and nodded. "So what did you say to him?"
Gram smiled. "I said, 'Well, I don't see why not. I got nothin' else to do today.'
"So Goldie ran across the street to the five and dime and bought me a ring so I could marry Raymond right then. It wouldn't have been right without a ring! It was barely worth a thing but it did its job. I didn't need nothin' fancy. And that's how we got married."
Have I ever mentioned how wonderfully exciting my Gram is? I love her spontaneous nature. My dad must have picked up on it, too--a hot day when Mom returned home from work, she shut the door to change clothes when she happened to notice the ugly yellow-brown owl hanging on the door as always. But this time, Dad had scrawled, "Will you marry me?" across the notepad glued to its chest. Two weeks later, the two married on a Monday afternoon, driving to Sea World for their honeymoon. When I had asked Dad why they had such a short engagement, he just shrugged and said, "Why not? Once we knew, why wait? Besides, it got everyone to shut up," he smiled. And to think, Gram never went through an engagement, and she didn't marry in a church like I always imagined she had. It's amazing the things you learn when you tap a story-telling vein on a summer evening.
I remembered attending a family reunion with Miss Gram several years ago and snapping photos of her. We had all hopped a fence leading to the M___ homestead, all buildings remaining intact. Gram shuffled towards one with great labor. "This is where Raymond and I went on our honeymoon! Then we lived here for a while." I blinked and tried to imagine the hunks of broken boards housing my Gram and her husband, but I couldn't. I envisioned them huddled among the debris, clutching each other for dear life against the cold. In retrospect, I'm sure it was a cozy little home with not so many gaps between the walls. But the tenderness, the loyalty and compassion all remain to fill in the cracks.
My grandfather died in the 1950s. After celebrating what he told my dad was "the best Christmas ever," he hopped into his semi-truck to deliver a load to Delaware. His truck slid on some ice and flew off the road into a creek. The cab burst into flames and Raymond had died instantly. Gram did not drive to the morgue to identify the body. "I want to remember him when he was alive," she explained to the coroner.
I like to remember loved ones when they're alive, too. While stories keep people alive long after they've left this earth, we should never take anyone for granted while they're still here with us. Life can vanish like a snuffed candle. We need to create these stories now. We need to seize our loved ones like we seize the day.
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