The one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw and build and play and dance and live as only you can. Neil Gaiman “Grandma can you tell me a story?” I asked as she warmed bottles for my younger brother and cousin. “Not right now Lori. Lets get the babies to bed first.” I helped her knowing that the faster that we could settle the younger kids down the sooner that she would be able to snuggle with me on her reclining chair and tell me her wonderful stories. One by one my younger cousin and siblings were put down for the night until it was just my grandma and m,e alone in her reclining chair. I would wiggle in beside her and she would tell her wonderful stories. My grandmothers lap was a place of safety and adventure as she would tell the tales in an animated way and I would laugh at the voices that she used. I was the oldest of 5 grandchildren. Getting time alone with grandma was like a rare treasure to me. Once in a while I got a whole day and night. That was always my favorite! When my mother would drop me off and pull away from the curb she would exclaim, “Its Lori day!” That meant that I would be able to chose what we ate for dinner, pick the TV shows that we would watch, games that we would play and the books that she would read. She would never tire as we read one by one. Late in the evening we would run out of story books and that meant that she would begin telling her own stories. They were always better then the story books. As time went on she would partner with me telling stories. She called it the story game. She would start the story and let me take over. Looking back I can see it really wasnt a story game. She was teaching me to tell stories. She was showing me how to look at life with child like eyes. Being the oldest child in my family she knew that I was much too serious and took on responsibilities beyond my years. She on the other hand, never lost her childlike wonder. When I became a mother myself I made sure that my daughter had regular visits with her great grandmother. I could imagine “Mellissa Day” as I dropped my little one off. One day I was in a hurry and pulled up to the curb to get Missy. It was raining and I was late I just wanted to grab her quickly and beat the traffic home. There on the front lawn they were dressed in trash bags and baggies of all sizes. They were covered with the various plastic shopping bags. I sat there by the curb watching when walk in the rain and I could hear my grandmother through my own memories telling her stories as they lived out the adventures together. As the years passed my grandmothers memory started to slip. She would call me Sheryl when I would visit, the name of her youngest daughter. At first I tried to explain to her who I was. I could see that it was frustrating for her so I began to tell her stories of our family. She would settle down, close her eyes and say “Keep talking.” Like a child, she just wanted to hear the story too. When my grandmothers memory was completely gone and our lives together had faded in her mind I became angry at the dementia. How could this disease rob me of this wonderful woman. I longed for her kindness, safety and adventure. One evening I stopped to visit with her. She was sleeping peacefully and I almost turned around to go back home. I paused, pulled up and chair and rested my head on her bed and wept. “Grandma I miss you.” I cried as I spoke out loud to myself and to her. She opened her eyes and startled. “Who are you?” she asked. “Its me grandma, Lori your grandchild.” I dried my eyes. She sat up a little. “Have I ever told you the story of my family coming to California?” “No, I dont think so.” I answered She scooted over a little on her bed. “Come up here.” she patted the bed. I sat close to her on the bed that night and one story rolled into the next and the next as she recalled the trip from Louisiana to California, her fathers many jobs to support the family and her tomboy like childhood with two brothers. I moved closer and wiggles into her arms, into the place of safety and adventure. “Tell me another story grandma.” We lost her the next month. At her funeral we told stories of this wonderful mother, grandmother and friend. One by one each family member told of the ways that she made them feel special, unique and valuable. I knew as I listened, her gift to us all were her stories passed down, retold and never forgotten. Tucked away in our hearts. A little girls voice inside of me remembers and often says, “Tell me a story grandma.”
Posted on: Mon, 10 Feb 2014 02:10:32 +0000