Was lolling about on a typical Sunday morning unable to sleep cos of a horrendous cold that's been bugging me for the past week or so...Anywyas, I got around to thinking of my grandmom (I am a sort of random person... get it?). She passed away this past winter (January 2006) at ripe old age of almost 80 something...
I have always missed having the grandmas described in stories and that my husband has had the good fortune to have. His grammy is a small sweet courgeous woman of apparently unending talent and courage, who refuses to cowed by life, disability, constant pain and a pretty typical household that depends entirely on her good cheer without quite realizing or acknowledging it. His other grandmom I never got to know but sounds like a woman of great humour and wisdom, beloved by all she knew and an established authoress.
I on the other hand had just one grandmom all my life. My paternal grandmom died (I so prefer euphemisms-died is just cruel to say) when my dad was in his 20s before he got married (he still jokes it greatly increased his marriageability in the eyes of the protective moms of prospective brides)...So for all intents and purposes Kunjamma (little amma... origin attributed to my cousins who got monikers confused) was all I had... Unfortunately for me, my grandmom preferred grown-ups to kids and then only when they listened to her. An extremely brave, stubborn and conflicted woman, she never quite figured out how to love all five of her offspring equally... The daughter of a widower who remarried a woman not much older than my Gm herself... promised in marraige to her cousin (which thankfully for all concerned turned out to be the best choice she would make for a very long time)... ill-treated by her aunt/mother-in-law (really women just have to learn to be nicer to each other so we can take over the world) .... Life soured her and kept her dissatisfied and angry through her entire life.... And while not slaving over the stove cooking for five kids and a husband and demanding mother-in-law within the confines of conservative south Indian tradition, she found time to enjoy little things... stitching classes, the little pleasure of a snuck -in cone of peanuts... a young woman forced to grow-up too soon trying to find herself in a small way... I have memories of her finishing my class projects for me with neat little hemming stitches (a talent she hasn't passed on to grandaughter or daughter!!)...stitches that would take me a whole year not to do, she would finish in day till I got so spoiled I would save up all the stitching I hated just so she could do it instead!!! As I grew up, of course I resented her with her confining view of the world, often unable to appreciate how she had had to adjust so much and was just trying to push back a little...we grew apart and I would often tell my hubby how I wished his grandmom was mine too or that mine should've been a little nicer like his...
But one thing she had that no one could take away from her... a unique brand of stubbornness and hardiness that seems to be a trait of women of that era... despite all the problems life handed to her including a bad stroke that felled an incredibly active woman, she still managed to beat back pain and discomfort to live life on her terms... With a paralyzed arm and leg, she still washed her own clothes, hung them out to dry (the way she had always done) and refused help wherever she could just to show that she was still herself.... I am not entirely sure I could face those sort of odds and have the will to live... Modern medicine has reduced us to a bunch of truly wilting lilies...As I grow older though in some strange way living a life that is common to women through the world no matter where they're from (babies, husbands, conflicts, resolution, progress, moving away from tradition, fighting for what we believe in, wanting our daughters not to go through what we did) I am starting to see that maybe she and I are not that different after all and only the expression of that feeling varies.
I have a picture I am glad I possess... four generations of women, my grandmom, my mom, myself and my daughter... caught in a snapshot of time...Four generations with a common thread of blood and I hope of courage to face life for what it is and with grace... It was the last time I saw my grandmom... Finally I can say, I did love her...in my own way.
I have always missed having the grandmas described in stories and that my husband has had the good fortune to have. His grammy is a small sweet courgeous woman of apparently unending talent and courage, who refuses to cowed by life, disability, constant pain and a pretty typical household that depends entirely on her good cheer without quite realizing or acknowledging it. His other grandmom I never got to know but sounds like a woman of great humour and wisdom, beloved by all she knew and an established authoress.
I on the other hand had just one grandmom all my life. My paternal grandmom died (I so prefer euphemisms-died is just cruel to say) when my dad was in his 20s before he got married (he still jokes it greatly increased his marriageability in the eyes of the protective moms of prospective brides)...So for all intents and purposes Kunjamma (little amma... origin attributed to my cousins who got monikers confused) was all I had... Unfortunately for me, my grandmom preferred grown-ups to kids and then only when they listened to her. An extremely brave, stubborn and conflicted woman, she never quite figured out how to love all five of her offspring equally... The daughter of a widower who remarried a woman not much older than my Gm herself... promised in marraige to her cousin (which thankfully for all concerned turned out to be the best choice she would make for a very long time)... ill-treated by her aunt/mother-in-law (really women just have to learn to be nicer to each other so we can take over the world) .... Life soured her and kept her dissatisfied and angry through her entire life.... And while not slaving over the stove cooking for five kids and a husband and demanding mother-in-law within the confines of conservative south Indian tradition, she found time to enjoy little things... stitching classes, the little pleasure of a snuck -in cone of peanuts... a young woman forced to grow-up too soon trying to find herself in a small way... I have memories of her finishing my class projects for me with neat little hemming stitches (a talent she hasn't passed on to grandaughter or daughter!!)...stitches that would take me a whole year not to do, she would finish in day till I got so spoiled I would save up all the stitching I hated just so she could do it instead!!! As I grew up, of course I resented her with her confining view of the world, often unable to appreciate how she had had to adjust so much and was just trying to push back a little...we grew apart and I would often tell my hubby how I wished his grandmom was mine too or that mine should've been a little nicer like his...
But one thing she had that no one could take away from her... a unique brand of stubbornness and hardiness that seems to be a trait of women of that era... despite all the problems life handed to her including a bad stroke that felled an incredibly active woman, she still managed to beat back pain and discomfort to live life on her terms... With a paralyzed arm and leg, she still washed her own clothes, hung them out to dry (the way she had always done) and refused help wherever she could just to show that she was still herself.... I am not entirely sure I could face those sort of odds and have the will to live... Modern medicine has reduced us to a bunch of truly wilting lilies...As I grow older though in some strange way living a life that is common to women through the world no matter where they're from (babies, husbands, conflicts, resolution, progress, moving away from tradition, fighting for what we believe in, wanting our daughters not to go through what we did) I am starting to see that maybe she and I are not that different after all and only the expression of that feeling varies.
I have a picture I am glad I possess... four generations of women, my grandmom, my mom, myself and my daughter... caught in a snapshot of time...Four generations with a common thread of blood and I hope of courage to face life for what it is and with grace... It was the last time I saw my grandmom... Finally I can say, I did love her...in my own way.
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