By Rita Lussier
A child needs a grandparent, anybody's grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world.
~Charles and Ann Morse
Finishing a run on a rather warm day, I stopped by the deli to buy a bottle of water. That's when I thought of it. A bowl of vanilla ice cream. That's when I thought of her.
Anyone who exercises knows the last thing your sweaty, exhausted body needs when you reach the finish line is ice cream. But she couldn't know that. Just like she couldn't fathom why I'd want to run on a scorching day in August. Or any day, for that matter. When I returned to her house, breathless and weary, the heaping helping of vanilla ice cream was her way of trying to cool me down. A grandmotherly thing to do.
Driving to upstate New York to meet her for the first time, I imagined what she'd be like. Bustling about her tidy kitchen, she'd have ruffles on her curtains and her apron. She'd stir butter and sugar into the carrots and keep the cookie jar filled. She'd knit afghans while she spun tales. She'd have a big heart and a lap that fit great-grandchildren.
When we arrived at her house, sure enough, she was everything I thought a grandmother would be. So I decided to adopt her. Although I didn't tell her right away.
"You can call me Gram," she said to me with a smile to her grandson, my husband at the time.
"I miss having a grandmother," I told her. "Both of mine died when I was young. I never got to know them that well."
"You'll get to know me," she replied.
And I did. Thanksgivings swirling with the sweet smell of pumpkin pie. Blizzards blustering outside her warm and cozy kitchen. Fans creaking louder than crickets on the Fourth of July.
She had an easy way about her that I admired. A quick smile that welcomed anyone who stopped by for a visit. A quiet way of listening that made the conversation flow. A steady temperament that seemed to calm those around her.
One day, as I sat at her kitchen table while she stirred pots and pans on the stove, I decided to tell her about my plan to adopt her.
"You can call me Gram," she said with a wink. "I already told you that."
As I would soon learn, she meant what she said. Just like a grandmother, she accepted me for who I was. For better or worse. So when my marriage to her grandson eventually ended, she was sad. But she was still there for me.
"Things don't always turn out like you plan," she said. Guess she had seen enough life to understand its disappointments. She had felt enough pain to know there are times you need comfort more than questions.
"You can call me Gram," she reminded me.
But keeping house by yourself in upstate New York, or anywhere, gets hard after a while. And so in time she moved to Rhode Island to be closer to her family. Every once in a while, I'd take my son to visit his great-grandmother. Sometimes when he was at school, I'd go alone. When I married again, I brought my new daughter along to visit.
"You can call me Great-Gram," she told my daughter.
It was never out of obligation that I went to see her. I came for her wisdom. When I went to visit her, I'd bring shortbread or green tea or Crackerjacks to brighten her day. In return, she'd give me something to think about.
When I was sad about the past, she'd remind me to think of the future. When the kids were loud and wild, she'd tell me to enjoy them. When I was worried about a problem at work or an argument with a friend, she'd tell me it would all work out. And it did. Always.
There was no better cure for my shortsightedness than her long view of life. Time and again, I'd see her eyes light up when she saw the kids. "Let them laugh," she'd say with a chuckle. "Let them play. Let them dance."
The last time I saw her, she was sleeping. She didn't hear me come into the room. She didn't notice I had brought the kids along. She didn't see the flower I left on her nightstand. "Kiss Great-Gram," I told the kids. And I did, too. "She's tired. She needs to rest."
Of all the things she taught me, I'd like to share this thought with you. Some think adoption is just for kids. I disagree. Adopt a grandfather. Adopt a grandmother. Someone who can tell you about the future because they've survived the past. Someone who understands how easy it is to see the trees and miss the forest. Someone who will remind you that yesterday's gone, tomorrow may be coming, but today is here.
A child needs a grandparent, anybody's grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world.
~Charles and Ann Morse
Finishing a run on a rather warm day, I stopped by the deli to buy a bottle of water. That's when I thought of it. A bowl of vanilla ice cream. That's when I thought of her.
Anyone who exercises knows the last thing your sweaty, exhausted body needs when you reach the finish line is ice cream. But she couldn't know that. Just like she couldn't fathom why I'd want to run on a scorching day in August. Or any day, for that matter. When I returned to her house, breathless and weary, the heaping helping of vanilla ice cream was her way of trying to cool me down. A grandmotherly thing to do.
Driving to upstate New York to meet her for the first time, I imagined what she'd be like. Bustling about her tidy kitchen, she'd have ruffles on her curtains and her apron. She'd stir butter and sugar into the carrots and keep the cookie jar filled. She'd knit afghans while she spun tales. She'd have a big heart and a lap that fit great-grandchildren.
When we arrived at her house, sure enough, she was everything I thought a grandmother would be. So I decided to adopt her. Although I didn't tell her right away.
"You can call me Gram," she said to me with a smile to her grandson, my husband at the time.
"I miss having a grandmother," I told her. "Both of mine died when I was young. I never got to know them that well."
"You'll get to know me," she replied.
And I did. Thanksgivings swirling with the sweet smell of pumpkin pie. Blizzards blustering outside her warm and cozy kitchen. Fans creaking louder than crickets on the Fourth of July.
She had an easy way about her that I admired. A quick smile that welcomed anyone who stopped by for a visit. A quiet way of listening that made the conversation flow. A steady temperament that seemed to calm those around her.
One day, as I sat at her kitchen table while she stirred pots and pans on the stove, I decided to tell her about my plan to adopt her.
"You can call me Gram," she said with a wink. "I already told you that."
As I would soon learn, she meant what she said. Just like a grandmother, she accepted me for who I was. For better or worse. So when my marriage to her grandson eventually ended, she was sad. But she was still there for me.
"Things don't always turn out like you plan," she said. Guess she had seen enough life to understand its disappointments. She had felt enough pain to know there are times you need comfort more than questions.
"You can call me Gram," she reminded me.
But keeping house by yourself in upstate New York, or anywhere, gets hard after a while. And so in time she moved to Rhode Island to be closer to her family. Every once in a while, I'd take my son to visit his great-grandmother. Sometimes when he was at school, I'd go alone. When I married again, I brought my new daughter along to visit.
"You can call me Great-Gram," she told my daughter.
It was never out of obligation that I went to see her. I came for her wisdom. When I went to visit her, I'd bring shortbread or green tea or Crackerjacks to brighten her day. In return, she'd give me something to think about.
When I was sad about the past, she'd remind me to think of the future. When the kids were loud and wild, she'd tell me to enjoy them. When I was worried about a problem at work or an argument with a friend, she'd tell me it would all work out. And it did. Always.
There was no better cure for my shortsightedness than her long view of life. Time and again, I'd see her eyes light up when she saw the kids. "Let them laugh," she'd say with a chuckle. "Let them play. Let them dance."
The last time I saw her, she was sleeping. She didn't hear me come into the room. She didn't notice I had brought the kids along. She didn't see the flower I left on her nightstand. "Kiss Great-Gram," I told the kids. And I did, too. "She's tired. She needs to rest."
Of all the things she taught me, I'd like to share this thought with you. Some think adoption is just for kids. I disagree. Adopt a grandfather. Adopt a grandmother. Someone who can tell you about the future because they've survived the past. Someone who understands how easy it is to see the trees and miss the forest. Someone who will remind you that yesterday's gone, tomorrow may be coming, but today is here.
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