To Have Such a Grandmother--A Sketch

My grandmother is the "Venus de Milo"--a stunning, mysterious woman.  Pictures of her run hard to come by.  Reserved, watchful, and firm, she is a quiet anchor.  Her compassion is not served with gushing words and open arms, but rather in a subtle, steady way.  She often steps away from center stage, only to be followed by the spotlight.  It can’t be helped.  She is too witty.

My grandmother has an affinity for the beautiful.  I remember as a little child opening up her jewelry armoire and trying on all of her necklaces, excited for the day when I'd be lady enough to wear them.  Along her bathroom window ledge she displayed ten delicate purple and green perfume bottles swirled with gold.  Of course I was told not to touch them, and of course I did and broke one or two.  I felt terrible, and though she made known her disappointment, I never felt a loss of her love.  Instead, I gained an appreciation for the delicate.

My grandmother is strong.  She won't take sass from anyone.  I remember being with my grandparents at their ranch and watching my grandma navigate muddy fields on her four-wheeler along with the men.  She loaded and pushed wheelbarrows full of rocks, dug holes, directed traffic, and sweat side by side the workers.  And she did it all with this indescribable sense of grace and femininity.  She wore garden gloves, old jeans, mascara, and a bow in her ponytail. Truly, she was a spectacle to me; I watched her with curiosity, her level of quality enigmatic.

It all comes naturally for her.  She was not raised under easy circumstances in which a dainty flower could flourish.  No, her elegance stirs from within, strengthened rather than stripped by a lack of luxury.  Though not warm, talkative, or gregarious, I've never seen my grandmother refuse her kindness.  She knows how to give--her time, her resources, her listening ear. Her strength and class diffuses off of her, drawing people to her.  Men become gentlemen and women ladies when Grandma is around.

Once, when I was about 11, I accompanied Grandma to her mom's home.  Inside the front door on display was a picture of my grandmother.  It was taken I think during her senior year of high school, for maybe prom or graduation--something fancy.  I remember staring at that picture, in awe.  Though I can't remember its details, I can remember its effect.  Her golden hair swooped gracefully up into a french twist.  She wore maybe ivory or pale lavender.  Though a simple portrait, so much was happening inside that frame.  My grandma looked at the camera with a still beauty.  She was stunning.  And she was deep.  There was a reservation about her even then that was magnetic to me.

Like the “Venus de Milo,” my grandmother’s appeal has been refined under the weather of time.  Much of her story is unknown to her grandchildren.  But the results of her story are apparent: we have an aware, compassionate, determined woman to call grandma and to show us how to wear grace and beauty. 

Thanks, Grandma.  I think you’re pretty great.