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The Good Old Days My grandmother loved to write and left us with a beautiful picture of her life through words. As I read her story for the first time, I was amazed and humbled at what she had experienced and endured. All of the times that I had fussed about trivial hardships flashed before me, and I was ashamed. My grandmother raised her children with the bare minimum, scrubbing clothes on a washboard and sweeping dirt floors. To have even one vehicle and an indoor toilet was a blessing. They worked hard for the simple things that we are able to go to the store and buy. My grandmother talked about these things but did not dwell on them. Though everyday life was hard work, it was also filled with the love that the family had for one another and the games they played together. As I "watched" my grandmother rear her children through her words, I felt a common bond with her for the first time. She was more than just a grandmother. She was a mother and a wife, just as I am. Though her life was hard, she found joy in it and lived her life for her family. She raised her family in the "old days" when life was so different than it is now...or was it? Even at the age of 34, I am able to look back 25 years and marvel at how far we have come. I remember getting our first telephone and living without a computer. I remember when we shared phone lines with other families and did not carry cell phones. Does this mean that I, also, lived in the old days? I certainly do not feel like I am old enough to have lived in the old days, but then again, maybe my grandmother didn’t either. As we were riding along in the car one day, my daughter asked me a question that I was not ready to hear. "Mom, did you have cars in the old days?" My first response was, "I did not live in the old days!" Then, I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw myself through her eyes. In my mind, I will always be the same little girl that ran and played in that small town, the same town where my grandmother made her life, not so long ago. However, to her, I am a mom, and for her to imagine my life as anything else is as far away in her mind as the old days of which she speaks. How can she know that it wasn’t that long ago? How can I make her understand that it was only yesterday that I was her age? As these thoughts crept into my mind, I felt fear. Fear for a life that is moving too fast and for a past that has turned into memories. Then, I recalled the words of my mother, who died at the young age of 37. My mother was a lovely woman, childlike in a sense, who loved life and worried about getting old. Even as a child, I remember wishing that she would worry less about her age. At 36 she was diagnosed with lung cancer. By 37 she was gone. Though my mother was not a writer, she filled two journals with thoughts of her last months. Sometimes she wrote about her fears and other times she reminisced about the past. One particular entry says it all. "I don’t know why I always worried so much about aging. Now I just wish that I could have the chance to grow old." What had haunted her for so many years of her life turned into such a blessing, to be desired, when she knew that it would be taken from her. She never lived to look back on what I believe to be the best years of her life, and remember. For me, I believe that I am living the best years of my life. These are the years that I have spent my whole life to get to and when they are gone, I will spend the rest of my life remembering them with fondness. I will sit down with an empty page, as my grandmother did, and I will fill it with memories too precious to let go. Just as my childhood has become "the old days," these days, too, will succumb to being the past. I learned a lot from reading my grandmother’s journal, as well as my mother’s. In my grandmother’s journal she wrote, "With my back to the wall I wonder where the years have quickly gone. In the interim my mind grows weary for the good and the bad I have known. Those I once knew as my children have interests now apart from mine, but I have no regrets to ponder. They have gently fallen from the vine." My grandmother embraced her past and was not afraid to reach out and touch it. She knew that, while it was gone, it was as much a part of her life as her next breath. Her entire being was molded by it, therefore, it still existed. Each morning that I wake up, I am given a new day. This is my day to take and turn into a memory that will one day make up my children’s past. They will recall this day when they look back and remember. As it is for me, it will feel like yesterday to them and they will wonder where all the years have gone. I am thankful for the words that my mother and grandmother left. Through them I have learned to cherish each moment and make it count. When each day is over, all we have left are the memories of it. All of these memories together will form our past.....the "good old days." |
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