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August 8, 2006

My mother's mother was called Honey. She moved to Jackson around the time I was born so that my mother could take care of her. From the moment I met her, she lived in a retirement complex called "Madonna Manor." It was a dump by the time she moved out, but pretty nice in the beginning. Of course nothing in Jackson is free from crime, and by the time I was in college, there was a woman a couple of floors down from Honey who got raped in her apartment. If I heard that now, I would be panicking to get my grandmother out of that environment. In Jackson, you just buy an extra lock for your door because you've given up on moving somewhere completely safe.

I digress. Honey was a remarkable woman. She became a single parent in the 1940's when her lovely husband walked out on her, my mother, and her older brother. Realizing quickly that she was going to have to support these children, she decided to become a nurse. With childcare help from her younger sister in Georgia, Honey managed to make it through nursing school (a feat my ex-husband couldn't do with me paying the bills and having no children), establish a home for herself and her children, and even managed to get a grand piano for my mother who somehow never missed a piano lesson no matter what food was or was not in the cupboards.

She did all this without a driver's license. Honey never drove. I don't know why she never learned to drive. It made her seem older and more frail than she was though. I remember my mother always having to drive across town and take Honey somewhere. To the doctor. Shopping. To church. To the library. Wherever Honey needed to go, my mother was there to take her. Until I turned 15 and got my driver's license that is. Then I picked up some of the responsibility. There was this time I had to take her to the podiatrist. It ended badly with me dashing from the room trying to make it to a bathroom before vomiting. From that day forward I vowed to take care of my feet and get pedicures on a regular basis from clean places.

I digress again. There are too many stories to tell about Honey. If I don't tire of typing to myself, I'm sure I'll hit on many more. The point I wanted to make today was that Honey was about my mother's age now when I was born. For all of her complaining, for the million times she said, "I'm blind and I can't see" to anyone she thought was in earshot, for all the hours I had to sit in front of her vanity and have my hair ironed into doodoo curls, I know that she was one of the most remarkable women I could have had in my life.

The endurance of that woman was incredible. She was strong, stubborn, and smart. There was no model back then for single moms. There was no child support or alimony. There was just her sheer will and determination. The things I learned from Honey could spin off into another blog altogether.

The point? My grandchild will not have these things to say about my mother. For all the praise I have for Honey, I think my mother is twice the woman with twice the smarts and twice the determination. I can only imagine what she could teach my children. And what stories will they tell if their family is gone before their memories start?

This is not the way I imagined it would be.

Honey lived to be 97. She did eventually really lose her sight and became quite dependent the last 5 years of her life. However, she also picked up and moved across the country at 92 years old. When my parents decided to move to California, Honey didn't bat an eye. She said, "When do we leave?" She made new friends, experienced new cultures, and loved to tell her stories to anyone who would sit and listen.

Honey and my mother didn't always get along so well. They loved each other dearly, but I think 30 plus years of caretaking to someone as negatively vocal as Honey could be took a toll on my mother. In the days before she died though, Honey told my mother that although she wanted to live to be 100, she was content to know that she had lived long enough to see my mother fulfill God's plan for her life. Isn't that what every child wants to hear? That their parent thinks they done good?

Honey gave that to my mom, and it meant the world to her. Momma has given that to me all along though, and it has made all the difference in my life. I'm grateful she didn't make me wait until the end to let me know that she is proud of me.

Start again tomorrow. This was something that my grandfather always said to me. He used to be the one I would call when I had a bad day. By the time I was done unloading my horrid tales, we would both be laughing because really, they were never that bad. I miss him.

I'm starting over. A week from Monday, I will marry the man of my dreams. It has taken time, pain, destruction, and rebuilding to get there, but we have almost made it.

In Montreat, Presbyterians fill the town. Not to mention, it is the most beautiful place on earth. It's the perfect place for a wedding. Ironically enough, the minister who will marry us has already done this for me once. I suppose you have to have a strange sense of humor, but it really is funny. I'm finally going to be married in the mountains by a stream and get to wear my Birkenstocks doing it. Life is good sometimes.

Start again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

I'm going to keep on trying. There is no reason why we shouldn't make the best of the lives we've been given.

"Good thing you get to start (again)." paraphrased.

It's hard to imagine myself without parents. They have been everything to appreciate. I thought my daughter would have the same kind of relationship with my father that I had with his. My father could be the same kind of grandfather that his father was. He has the wisdom and the kindness. He would so love to have a granddaughter who called him her best friend.

There are so many things that I want to give to my parents that only time would allow. Starting all over tomorrow won't give me that time though. It will only mean that another day has past, and we are another day closer to the cruel illnesses that will take my parents.

Right now I'm not looking forward to tomorrow anymore.me. Now that I'm finally somewhat of an adult and can actually spend time with them as friends, they have become suddenly old. It doesn't make any sense.

My grandfather's wisdom needed that generation gap to be true.

As I see it, we had moved into the phase where my parents were now going to be the grandparents and we would have another 30 years of travel, pictures, cards, phone calls, and everything I had with my grandparents. One problem, I don't even have any kids yet.

There are only granddogs from me. The best granddogs that ever lived, mind you, but still canine. The most recent one was even named after my grandfather, father, and brother (Senior, Junior, and the Third), since I had decided that I was doomed to be barren. Lucky for me, I was just doomed to be divorced and now have hope to be a mom with the most perfect man.

So she also says, "I want to live to see my next grandchildren."

I want that more than anything. That should have been on my list. I want my mother to live not just to see her next grandchildren, but to baptize them and watch them grow up even just a few years. I want them to know her and have memories of her.

This is not too much to ask.