G is for Grandparents

Sorry this is so late today. Through a glitch, I thought it was scheduled to be posted earlier. And by glitch, I mean user error.

My grandparents were and still are some of the most important people in my life. My grandmother died when I was 16, and my grandfather when I was 29. I was lucky enough to have them as long as I did, but every life event I’ve had, I think about them, and how much I wish they were there for it.

I’ve always loved to read, but my grandma is the one who taught me to love stories. The first book I remember loving, Orange Oliver: The Kitten Who Wore Glasses, by Robert Lasson, sat on a bookshelf in the hallway entry to her home. I read it every time I went over there until I “outgrew” it. Obviously I never did, if I still remember it all these years later.

My parents both worked, and they read me stories at bedtime, but it was my grandma who told me about The Little Match Girl, Snow White and Rose Red, and strangely, Liberace. She watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory with me. She encouraged me to tell stories to her, and she listened, nurturing the storyteller in me.

She drew numbers and told me to make pictures out of the numbers. I knew even then that I wasn’t a good artist. Not only were my drawings not very good, but they weren’t very creative. I learned that I’m good with words, less so with any visual arts. I don’t remember whether she told me that my drawings were good when I told her I didn’t think they were, but I do remember her encouraging me to draw anyway. I wouldn’t understand the lesson for years, but it was there. It didn’t matter if I was good at it or not; if I liked it, I should do it.

My grandpa could be gruff, but not with me. With me, he was patient. He liked to teach me about antiques and baking. He loved to laugh, and could be silly when I didn’t expect it. One time I put a spoon on the end of my nose, and straight faced, he did it too. One of my favorite memories of him was when I made some comment about not being sure if he knew how to use the voicemail on his cell phone. He said something like, “Of course I know how to use my voicemail. It’s my phone, isn’t it?” I retold that story as just a funny story for years, until I realized that I learned a lesson from it. If you own it, know how to use it.

Although I lost them way too young, I learned many important things from them, and I still miss them. They say you can’t pick your family, and that’s true. But if I had to pick, I couldn’t have done better than the people who were gifted to me.

A is for Antiques

April is the annual blogging A to Z Challenge, where I blog a different letter of the alphabet daily.  Click the link if you’d like to learn more about it.

I’ve decided to stick to a theme this month, and it’s going to be Things I Love.

Bench in garden, Pennsylvania
Photo Credit: Doree Weller

When I was a child, I spent a lot of time traveling with my grandparents, who sold antiques for a living.  I knew what a hatpin holder and an oyster plate while I was still in elementary school.

We would drive to dusty old flea markets in their van, and before we could sleep for the night, we had to unload all the boxes full of fragile things.  My grandfather and I would set up his tent (a metal structure with a tarp bungee corded to protect us).  My grandpa told me that people would be more likely to stop by if we had something to protect them from the rain and the sun.

We set up tables and put tablecloths over them to make them look nice.  Ink stained my fingers as we unwrapped the newspaper protecting tea sets and dolls and candlesticks and iron coin banks.

I grew up loving old things.  Whenever I walk into an old junk store and inhale the smell of dust and mustiness, I feel like I’m home again.  Going to a flea market feels like visiting an old friend.

Many of my best memories are tied up with flea markets, antiques, and my grandparents.  Things that might be old and forgotten by the time you get to them were once loved by someone.  Next time you come across an antique, don’t just wonder what it’s worth.  Instead, close your eyes… and feel the history.

Y is for Yesterday

“Yesterday… All my troubles seemed so far away.  Now it looks as though they’re here to stay.  Oh I believe… in yesterday…”- Paul McCartney, from Yesterday

After a loved one dies, it’s not unusual to re-evaluate life.  My husband’s grandfather died last week, which is part of the reason my posts have been so sporadically timed this last week and why I haven’t been very good about reading other A-Z bloggers.  I’ve had a lot on my mind.

My husband’s family is from Poland, and my husband’s generation is the first one born here in the US.  We found pictures from before his family immigrated, a treasure trove of black and white photos.  In the pictures, people are gathered around with food and drink, laughing and having a good time.  There are pictures of his grandparents doing simple things, like cooking and working in the garden.  There are first day of school photos and photos from funerals.  Later, there are sepia toned, faded and creased pictures of vacations and days at the beach.

I know that the past tends to take on a rose-colored look, and that the “good ol’ days” weren’t really as good as they seem in retrospect.  But it made me wonder… what the heck am I doing with my life?

See, my husband and I are homebodies.  That’s not bad, but looking at those photos, it struck me that maybe I’m going to look back one day when I’m stuck at home with aches and pains, bad night vision, and medical dietary restrictions, and wonder why I didn’t get out there and do more when I can.

When we’re young (and I think young these days is anything under 50), we always think we have more time.  More time to vacation and more time to plan.  I’ll get out of the house and do something tomorrow.  Honest.  I’ll exercise more and eat better.  Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is an illusion.  It’s not guaranteed to any of us.  It’s good to make plans and to have dreams, but there’s a big difference between planning and procrastination, and maybe I need to start delineating that a little better.

Yesterday is great.  It’s a wonderful reminder, and it’s wonderful to have memories.  You can’t live there, but you can certainly visit.

Today is the important thing.  Doing, seeing, laughing.  My husband’s grandfather lived a full life.  I don’t know how he felt about it, but it looks like he had nothing to regret.  I wrote about regrets here a few weeks ago and thought that I had nothing to regret.  Now that I’m re-evaluating, I wonder if the things I don’t regret now, I might in the future.  It won’t kill me to experiment and try to get out of the house more and do more things.  See what I think.

When we were children, we didn’t take naps by choice.  We didn’t sit down.  We didn’t rest.  We ate cookies first and then ran off the excess sugar.  Maybe I need to get back to those roots and see what happens.