A visit to Grandma's

OK, so I don't know if this would be considered a "wild hair" or if I'm just caving to peer pressure (thank you, Matt Elliott), but I am finally breaking my month-long silence to re-enter the blog world. The question is: what do I have to say? One thing I've noticed about writing is that the less you do it, the less you feel that you have to write. And conversely, the more you write, the more that bubbles up to the surface desperate for expression. I suppose that is why writing can be so therapeutic.

Anywho, I don't mean to wax poetic about writing. I want to talk about my recent visit to my only living grandparent. My grandmother, Gladys Lavera Wiggins Gatz (no, I won't be naming my next child after her should she turn out to be a girl) will turn 92 at the end of this month. I hope it is not ugly to admit that she has always been my favorite grandparent, and I feel very blessed that she has enjoyed such a long and healthy life. Although she has become feeble in recent years and struggles with her hearing, her mind is still sharp, and her hair is almost as dark as mine. I took Gabe to see her in Jan 2004 when he was not quite one, and then we retuned last month with my parents. The trip is not fun -- she lives just outside Tulsa, Oklahoma, a good 850+ miles from suburban Atlanta. Two days on the road with a two-year old and a week in a hotel room with my parents (despite how much I love them) is not exactly a picnic. Not to mention 9 days away from my sweet husband -- but that's another story.

On last year's visit, I had every intention of sitting down with Grandma and videotaping a conversation between us about all the family stories that I've never heard -- how she and Grandpa met, what my dad was like as a kid, what her childhood was like, what the war years were like, and so on. Well, that conversation never happened, and I feared I would never get another chance. Fortunately, I was wrong, and on this visit, my sweet parents took Gabe for a day to my uncle's house so I could have Grandma alone to myself. The videotape still doesn't exist, but we had the most memorable day together. We started by going through a box of photos -- she had recently moved from one assisted living home to another, so she wasn't sure what was in this box. The stories that came through those pictures were amazing. I could have spent days listening to Grandma talk. She told me about her great-grandmother who left her home for a forbidden marriage to a Choctaw Indian; he was later killed in the Civil War. She showed me pictures of my incredibly dapper Grandpa as a young man. She told me all about her wonderful father, Winston America Wiggins, who died when she was 13 and he was my age, 34. His was about the 4th known case of Hodgkin's Disease in the country. My great-grandmother, Jane Wiggins, then sold everything and moved her 4 children (all age 13 and under) to town where she took in laundry to provide for her family. Grandma later went to work as a switchboard operator for "the phone company" (don't we miss those good old Ma Bell days?) at the ripe old age of 15, a job she would have her entire life. We talked a little about what it was like to give birth to two boys in the same calendar year -- yes, my dad was born on Jan. 1 and his brother Joe came along in Dec. of 1934 -- and to raise them and then a younger son during the Depression years.

I could go on with the stories she shared, but you get the picture. I was never really much of a history buff in school, but I find that as I grow older, I become more fascinated by the past. I am amazed and inspired at the fortitude and faith of those who came before us, and I often look in the mirror with guilt at the general laziness and self-centeredness of my generation. I wonder how we would fare in the face of a catastrophic depression, the rise of a maniacal and murderous tyrant, or any other threat to our life, liberty and pursuit of happiness (yes, I've gotten more patriotic with age, as well). Obviously, I can't answer that question, nor can I fail to recognize the ever-strengthening undercurrent of resolve in our nation for a return to common sense, strong values, and decency. I am a firm believer that the past -- both personal and universal -- shapes who we are. So, I'll go on my way living stories that I can someday share with my grandchild, God willing.