As a child, some of my most vivid memories are of times spent at my grandmotherapos;s house. I loved the time I spent with her and she made my brothers and I feel like we were her favorite playmates. She never tired of playing the same old games over and over again, and whenever it was "grown up time", I would have quite a bit of time alone to explore. Her house was like a museum filled with all sorts of odd pieces of history that sheapos;d managed to collect over the years.
One of my favorite things was an old view-finder made of wood. There were old cards with two of every picture of them that you would place into the finder and hold it up to your eyes like glasses. Once in the finder, you could see all sorts of details in the pictures that werenapos;t visible to the naked eye. These pictures were old, like from the 1800apos;s, and I spent hours upon hours looking at old family photos, ancient storefronts, ladies of leisure images of life "in the big cities".
My great-grandmother was an Indian. And so there were Indian artifacts around the house: moccasins, a peace pipe, little purses made of leather and beadwork. I was fascinated by these and tried to reconcile what I saw with the negative and prejudicial comments I heard my father say about Indians. If they were so bad, I wondered, how could they make such beautiful things? And why would you have so much hatred against a people you are related to?
Childhood musings for sure.
And then there were the books. Stories of my father and his ability to literally devour books were legendary. "Hereapos;s the set of encyclopedias your father read cover to cover one summer." "Oh, and hereapos;s the set of animal books your father loved so much." Or, "You can look at these books behind the glass, but we donapos;t take them out very often. Theyapos;re old and you need to be a little older before we can let you look at them."
As the years passed and I grew, my fascination with these "forbidden" books increased. And as soon as I was old enough, I was allowed to read them for myself.
I donapos;t remember them being special in any other regard except many of them were by authors that Iapos;d already discovered for myself. To imagine my father as a boy reading the same kinds of books I was astounded me. Was it possible that he was ever any different than he was as my father? When did he lose his sense of humor? His patience? His belief that others could be as great as he was?
At a garage sale this weekend, I came across some of the books Iapos;d treasured as a child. How odd that so much time had gone by without my thinking of them. Yet the second I saw their covers, I instantly knew Iapos;d seen them before.
I picked them up and flipped through their pages. Their power wasnapos;t in what they were about, but who I was and where I was when I saw them for the first time.
SO many things in my life are referenced by self-injury. If I see a toy I used to play with in a store, one of my first thoughts is, "I wasnapos;t hurting myself yet."
But with these books, I couldnapos;t say that. How clearly I can remember reading those books during those trips and then inevitably getting into trouble while I was there. Being punished. Being made to feel small. Hurting myself over and over again, before praying for death when I went to sleep.
The books represented such a beautiful memory before self-injury crept up and ruined it.
Another one of my most favorite memories of my grandmotherapos;s house is spending time with her in the kitchen. The only room in the house that had air conditioning (a window unit) was the living/dining room. That meant that the kitchen door had to stay open with the screen door closed, and all of the cooking time we spent was to the smell of the tractors outside, buzzing bees and the ever-present smell of dirt in the air.
My earliest memories of cooking with my grandmother are before I was in school. I had to have been about 3 or 4 at the time because my next brother was still a baby. I had to stand on one of the kitchen chairs to reach the sink or the stove top. I had been made an apron to wear. And I spent my time talking to my grandmother about my imaginary child, Bruce. A son I had given birth to but hated with a passion. He would never behave. He embarrassed me and I found myself doing nothing but spanking him. (My mom will tell you she often walked in on me "spanking" my bed with a belt because Bruce wouldnapos;t behave. How interesting that I used to be spanked with a belt too. I guess the fruit never falls far the tree.) EVERYONE in the family knew about Bruce because I talked about him a lot. Even as a small child I knew what it was like to be disappointed in another "person" and want to beat them into submission.
But it was the smells that I treasured most from my grandmotherapos;s house. Even now, most of the holiday smells I come across instantly remind me of her.
I was 9 the last time I saw my grandmother. Once my parents got divorced they wanted nothing to do my brothers or I. So when I think of her house, I am always small, always full of dreams and eagerly anticipating of the next time Iapos;d get to see her.
There has been so much loss in my life that I cannot understand. I donapos;t think about it very often, and then something random like books at a garage sale will bring them all back.
If I close my eyes and think about it hard enough, I can be back there in her house. I can feel the carpet between my toes. I can see the furniture and feel the texture of it beneath my fingertips. When I think of time travel, this is what I think about. Because in those focused moments, I am there.
My grandmother is nearing 80. I thought for sure once I was older she would find a way to contact me and assure me that she has as many positive memories of me as I do of her.
But that never happened.
All I have left of her are memories and a bunch of old books from a garage sale.
I deserve more.
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