awww, Simon (((((((((((((Simon)))))))))))).
I can so relate to your post. Lately I have been very, very melancholy about my grandparents. I had one set that were' real' grandparents, one we saw only very rarely.
Of the close ones...my grandmother is in her eighties, and we very nearly lost her at the end of March. When I thought about a life without her, I literally felt like a four year old again. I cried for days. I wrote to her, told her that she could move in with us if she needed to (our place is small, but we'd work it out). She had been staying with relatives out of state when she took ill and just came home to my parents a couple weeks ago. When I have seen her since it's made me worry so much. She is frail now, suddenly I see her age where before I never, ever did.
When I wrote to her, I told her that I knew she hated doctors, and all she was going through, but I told her that I didn't care that I'm almost 32, I'm just not ready to be without my grandmother yet, so to please do her part and listen to them.
When I think of her, I'm four, and I remember her and my grandfather taking me home with them on Friday nights when my parents would be shouting at eachother and I'd bear the brunt of their frustrations cause I was the smallest...the grands would take me home, and if I close my eyes I can still remember the way their guest room smelled as I lay in that bed, the happiest child in the world, feeling safe, warm, and loved.
The combination of scents had to include the smell of my grandfathers' many suits which hung, freshly dry cleaned in the spare room closet. That with the leather of his bookbag, the smell of the books in his huge 'theocratic' library on the wallshelf...a hint of his cologne in the room and the fresh, clean, soft sheets and blankets which were so wrinkle free they had to have been pressed before the bed was made.
His desk was in that room. His typewriter. The faint smell of correction tape along with it. He wrote his talks in there. He was an elder all my life, but like none I ever knew before, or since. He helped everyone, and regardless of whether they were in the 'truth' or not. If someone had a need, he would just fill it. He was the most generous soul I ever knew.
That spare bedroom was 'his' room.
He and I were kindered spirits. He always expected more of me than of the other grandchildren. Not that he loved me any more, or them any less, there was just some connection between us that didn't seem to be there with the others. My grandmother said he expected more, because he knew I was capable of it.
When he died after a short, horrible illness when I was 11, our world fell apart. My mother had a nervous breakdown from which she never fully recovered. Granddad was the glue that held the family together, and without him, there became rifts, chasms, that still haven't been bridged to this day. Even between the JW members of the family.
I can't believe he's been gone 20 years. It seems like yesterday, and half the time when I see my grandmother I still expect to hear him come in the door a few moments later, his keys jingling, whistling. He always came in last because he'd drop her off at the door then park the car.
He was, simply, the best person I ever knew. He and my grandmother are the parents of my heart, they gave me love and affection that my own parents just couldn't muster, or were too young and immature to provide for me.
I too would love to go back to that time. I'd also have a few things to say to the child I was then. I'd make sure as hell sure that she knew that none of what was happening around her was fault. She was told it all was, repeatedly, even though I know now that it wasn't. Just as nothing that is happening between my ex and I, or ever has, is my daughter's fault.
When I was in therapy back in the early 90's, John Bradshaw was all the rage then. All that 'inner child' work. When my therapist had me try to do some exercises to go back and address things and heal that child, I told her the same thing, repeatedly. "I can't get in touch with her, that little girl is dead."
I never did get through that work. I went around it, found other ways to go back into my childhood and reason on things. But to me, that child is dead. My therapist actually cried that day.
I look at pictures of myself then, a girl with a different name, face, haircolor, and it is like looking at someone else. I can feel sorry for her looking at her in pictures, but when I think about her as being me, there is just nothing there. no emotion, just nothing.
I don't ever want my daughter to look back on her childhood and realize that the adults around her were too self absorbed to love her. And with the relationship that we have...at least I hope I'm on the right track.
So many memories. I really should write more about my grandfather. Remembering is like being with him, if only for a little while. And I take every chance I can get to see my grandmother, even though she isn't 'supposed' to see me.
She said I was the only one of her (many) grandchildren (all in the 'truth' but me) that offered to take her in and help pay for her medicines. Apparently, according to someone who knew, she slept with my letter under her pillow while she was getting better.
I don't know how long I'll have her with me. But I will hold onto her with both hands as long as I can. I simply do not know what I would do if she just wasn't there.
((((((((((((Simon)))))))))))) I hope I haven't depressed you more!!! Just wanted to let you know that you are most definitely not alone.
But hell, you know what? I am so glad I have those memories of them. Some kids dont' have anything good to remember at all, from the time they can remember back to. At least I have those moments, and I am grateful for them.
(((((((((((((Simon, Angharad and kids)))))))))))))))
love,
essie
