A Meditation on Grandmothers

Even before my new grandson joined us - from the moment I learned of his existence - I pondered who I would be to this newest member of our family. Grandmother or Baba, as I called my grandmothers? Granny, as my children called my mother? Nannan, as they called my mother-in-law?

Grandmother, wishing once again that we'd fly right.

Grandmother was a force to be reckoned with. She was an elegant, articulate, Southern with a capital S woman. Adored by her children and adoring them, but with very strict notions of religion, propriety and society. Notions as silly as chiding her young granddaughters for waving at the soldiers in a convoy lumbering down East First North Street in Morristown, TN. Or as chilling as refusing to share a taxi home from the market with a black woman in the late 1960s. Or as saddening as her deep sigh upon learning I was engaged to marry a Roman Catholic.

Yet so much that I am comes directly from her - my love of books and reading, my penchant for men who are awful, awful punsters, my loves of history, genealogy, and opera. She was a devoted mother, as was her daughter, my mother. Visiting down home was a thrill when I was young, perhaps because Mother was so full of joy, or perhaps because of the wide open arms and smiles that greeted us when we pulled into her driveway after the long drive from Connecticut. She had wonderful things awaiting us - old sunbonnets and clothes to play dress ups, the complete Five Little Peppers series of books, perfumes and bath beads, and two drawers full of treats (toys in the dining room and candy in the kitchen). Even in college, when my friends and I pulled in for dinner on our way to New Orleans for spring break, she came flying out the back door with arms spread wide and plied us with food, coffee and sandwiches for the road. And yes, there was a gelatin salad.

Baba and two of her
granddaughters.

I always thought I'd be a Baba. I've identified with my Carpatho-Rusyn heritage my entire life, saw much more of Baba growing up than Grandmother, and had a much less complicated relationship with her. She exemplified the unconditional love I associate with grandmothering. I cherish the memories of dinner at her house, of shelling peas from her garden or teasing her about ironing the aluminum foil to reuse, of kneeling in the church yard with the Easter baskets to be blessed, of watching her brush her waist-length hair and feeling her brush mine.

I share her quick temper, her fierce devotion to her family. It is my constant prayer to share her faith and work ethic.

When Mother chose Granny as her moniker I was startled. I don't remember her using the word when talking about her own grandmothers, but she told us then it was what she called her paternal grandmother.

Granny and the rest of us on tour. Children's clothes by Granny.

Granny, like my own grandparents, was a long-distance grandmother. We laughed at and loved the clothes that rained down on the grandchildren. (I am already imitating this trait.) She adored being with the babies, rocked them for hours and loved to hear of each new accomplishment as they grew. We travelled together, toured and sat for hours on various beaches as sand castles were built and washed away. She made sure the grandchildren had their New York City adventures, times with their cousins and had a special room set aside for them at home in Connecticut.

She was a character, as well, slipping off when we visited to her very unfinished basement for a cigarette and glass of wine. Should one of the grandchildren go missing odds are he or she would be found perched on a lawn chair in the basement, next to the cobweb ladened bomb shelter their grandfather built at the height of the Cold War, working with Granny on a New York Times crossword puzzle, ringed in smoke and nibbling on the tic-tacs she'd share. It drove me mad.

She thought of each grandchild often, and in her last days spent time sharing her hopes for them with her husband and daughters. One of her final conversations with my young son involved her funeral, my funeral and a hawaiian shirt. Apparently there will be a pig roast when I die. She was irreverent, witty and lived life on her own terms. My children adored and adore her.

Nannan with her lap full.

Their Nannan almost defines grandmother. She rocked, listened, laughed, hugged or scolded as needed. Fussed over their meals, played countless card games (graduating from Go Fish to Bull___), toured aquariums and battlefields, saved bread for them to feed the ducks, proudly introduced them after mass, remembered every story about their childhoods (not to mention their father's and her own) and is still at it. She's now a very proud long-distance great-grandmother.

So which will I be? Probably a little of all of the above (the best parts, I pray). But I'm going by Granny these days. I'm still not sure why, except it felt the most comfortable.