Grandma was a fixture in the lives of my siblings and me. My grandfather died when I was 9 months old, on the day I took my first step, my mother told me. Grandma moved in with our family shortly after and our home was her home for the next 25 years, give or take. Having two working parents, she was the one who packed our lunches for school. For me, that was a white bread and Oscar Mayer Bologna sandwich with mustard, Charles Chips potato chips, a small cooler thermos with Grandma’s homemade applesauce (or rhubarb sauce, when it was in season), and two of Grandma’s ever-present oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies, along with a thermos of milk. Though I knew it wasn’t the healthiest choice, when I was pregnant with my firstborn, that was what I craved and it remains comfort food for me, though an extremely rare indulgence. (And of course, my attempts to make her homemade treats have never resulted in the same satisfaction.)
Grandma’s was the lap that brought the most comfort. Wider and softer than Mom’s or Dad’s, she would rock us gently in her upholstered rocking chair, soothing us against her cushioned chest. She would listen intently to our stories from school and was generous with her praise. Though I know she did reprimand us when warranted, I don’t remember her raising her voice, and the disciplining was left to our parents to administer. What I do remember is her twinkling eyes, filled with love, the sound of her thin voice, her exclamations of “heavens to Betsy!” or “for pity’s sake!” or “you’re going to freeze your fanny!”
I came across this photo when I was looking through my scanned collection of childhood photos. It jumped out at me, because I am going to become a grandmother sometime this month. You can see her love for me in this photo as she gently kisses me above my ear. I can feel it now, looking at it. I want to be the source of love and comfort to my grandson that my grandmother was to me. A relationship of love, experiences shared, laughter, and passing on to him (and his future siblings and cousins, if we are lucky) the stories of those who came before him and whose genes he is inheriting.
I hope that someday he will show his own children a photo of himself as a baby in the arms of his grandmother, his “Lala”. And I hope that he can see in my face all the love that I have for him, just as I see the love in my own grandmother’s face. Love, relationships, memories…it’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
