It’s been, as usual, a very busy month for us. My Middles are both taking Driver’s Ed, which in Maine means 3 weeks of class plus driving time with the instructor. And this month the only class available was in town – 30 minutes away. So I’m spending a lot of time driving them back and forth now so that I don’t have to spend a lot of time driving them everywhere later. Somehow this makes sense. It makes me just a little crazy (and angry) when I hear people talking about how fast they can get from one place to another, and let’s not even think about how many people are on their phones while they drive. Two more of my babies are on the road now. Please drive safely.
Yesterday after I dropped the Middles off for class and drive time, the Littles and I headed a bit further down the road to visit my grandparents. They’re in an assisted living home temporarily while my mom recuperates from surgery. Unfortunately, my mom is an hour away in one direction, and my grandparents are an hour away in the other direction, so our visits are limited.
My grandmom cried when she opened the door. It’s a usual reaction from her when someone surprises her, but it’s still a hard reaction to handle. Can you imagine what it must be like to be so happy to see someone that you cry?
My grandmom is the one who taught me to sew. She was a bit of a seamstress, sewing things and altering clothing for friends, family and neighbors to make a bit of “pin money”. She had her sewing machine set up in the middle bedroom of their home, and I remember fondly standing by her side while she worked. She helped me earn my Sewing Merit Badge when I was a Girl Scout, showing me how to make a pattern from an item of clothing and then sew it together.
Every time I see them, they, for the most part, tell the same stories. But instead of being bored with them, I’m honored. Because an awful lot of those stories, especially from Grandmom, are about things we did together. What an honor to be a part of a 92-year-old’s good memories. She talks about the swimming lessons she took my brother and I to, and about walking to the pool in the summertime. She talks about the sock monkeys she sewed with me by her side, about lining them up on the back of the sofa and naming them before she sold them. She talks about the songs we used to sing together. She talks about them over and over and over again, and I love hearing them.
Sometimes she’ll talk about other things – like when she was a child growing up during the Depression. My grandfather usually chimes in then, telling about the celery farm he worked at when he was about 11. Or the newspaper delivery route he and his brother had when he was 8. I love their stories. I hope we get to hear them for a long time yet.