Eyewitness

Glancing to my right, by the blue recliner in the dining/living room where I often nurse my baby and blog, my gaze catches 50th anniversary dishes, Christmas village houses, family pictures, handmade angel, and gorgeous crystal cake pedestal, tucked amidst many more breakable artifacts of my grandma Fay's life. She survived into her eighties, my petite little Irish-blooded grandma. Having lived in the home she endlessly cleaned, decorated and maintained for a good half century, for a couple weeks now, I've wondered often how she managed it. A polio survivor in childhood, she suffered disfiguration of her arm, shoulder and back. Dad once told me that she endured constant pain as a result. Blind in one eye, she required glasses to see properly through the other. Add onto that congestive heart failure, asthma, and other health problems, and most people wouldn't expect much from her. She embodied the saying: "You can live a big life in a small place."

Summer often found her making pies, canning, prepping vegetables from Grandpa's plentiful, rich garden, planning picnics, and visiting her many many friends and relatives. She carted me off to the circus, the melodrama, the theater, nursing homes, vacation Bible school, funerals, weddings, family reunions, swim lessons, and so much more. Her only granddaughter, I often caught it over my dress length ("That's too long - it makes you look older than you are!"), my manners, my social graces and my weight, among other things. Masterful cook, cake decorating extraordinaire, beauty parlor queen, passionate geneologist, hardworking housewife, loyal friend, constant gossip, nosy, bossy, fiery, loving, sharp, informed...etc. So much to say of her. But born in the twenties, she lived most of her life before I came along. I'm not her eyewitness.

Grandpa reclines in the chair beside me. He turned 88 this past February. Every afternoon, he awakes slowly, convinced it's morning and that the day's beginning all over again. In many of his behaviors, he mirrors my toddler. It's truly called the second childhood for good reason. But Grandpa's gone a step further in decline - he suffers from ever-worsening dementia. When Grandma passed, five years ago last October, Grandpa began to talk for the first time I could remember. Of course he'd spoken over the years but rarely more than a sentence or two before Grandma would interject with something and his moment was done. But after her death, he often said, misty-eyed, that we knew where she was and would see her someday. He frequently mentioned heaven and death, and recounted Grandma memories repeatedly. His undying love and honor of her life warmed my soul. Then the strokes came and began eroding it all away. Now he's well-off recognizing her picture and knowing her name. I miss hearing the testimonies from Grandma's eyewitness, but recognize how incredibly, abundantly blessed I am to have such examples of a true husband, a real man, a true wife, a real woman, and a happy marriage, to observe throughout my life. How short I am, when I stand by their yardstick and measure my life.

Hoping for growth. Thanking God for all the friends who've read my other posts and offered prayers, support and positive feedback. Please keep responding. I'll keep writing. It's therapeutic and I learn more about myself every time I do. Blessings and Love, V