A circle of life, in the ago
I had heard the old Indian legend about the red fern. How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a blizzard and had frozen to death. In the spring, when they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up between their two bodies. The story went on to say that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred.
Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows
She and I, her and me — never her and I, or she and me. Always us. She was a retired English teacher. I was a West Texas girl — 7, then 8, then 9 years old. She happened to be my grandmother, but that wasn’t all she was to me.
She was a goddess, a larger than life being who descended upon me wrapped in a veil of wonder. Although, technically she didn’t descend. She never descended. I ascended to meet her — high above the clouds on man-made wings.
Who knew San Francisco was a backdrop for idyllic childhood summers?
My sister and I visited her for a month each summer. Far away in that mystical land called San Francisco, we saw and experienced things beyond our wildest imagination: the ballet, China Town, wine country, hair salons, chop sticks, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Presidio.
We worked in her medical office for an hourly wage, filing folders, cleaning, making copies, and developing x-rays. We saved our pay for things we wanted to have or do. She taught us about money and poker and cooking. She shared her love — love of food, adventure, friends, entertaining, flowers, gardening. She shared her love of us as well — to us, for us, with us, about us. Her love was different from any I’d ever known.
She knew the richness of words and language and stories, and she read to us every night. My sister and I would nestle in our bunk beds while she read a chapter from a book she chose. I remember Where the Red Fern Grows most clearly.
She taught me how to type and also helped me get my first typewriter. “You pay half, and I’ll pay half,” she said. With those seven words, she transformed the impossible into possibility.
She taught me about gardening — how to grow and tend other living things, to help them find their place and become something beautiful, something useful and nourishing.
So, what do you get when you drop West Texas children into the heart of San Francisco?
It’s an adventure, but it ain’t always rosy. Except… “Ain’t ain’t a word, and I ain’t going to say it.” That’s what she’d say. That’s what she’d make us say whenever we used “ain’t.” We recited that sentence a lot, my sister and I.
Poor grammar wasn’t the only difference between San Francisco and two West Texas girls. We froze in the cool summer temperatures, wearing our heaviest coats while the natives tromped around in shorts and flip flops. She would chide us for fighting, for the way we spoke, for our lack of gentility. Her friends would laugh at our thick accents, which they found cute but impossible to understand.
She tried to improve us, teach us the details of table manners and place settings. She exposed us to cultures we never knew — cultures of time, geography, and affluence. She tried to help me understand that how a word is spelled is often an indicator of how it should be pronounced. She tried to help us align ourselves to success in a world even more immense than the vast nothingness we knew as home.
She was a gardener, not just of plants but a tender of souls.
She took her seeds, wrapped in hope, and nestled them deeply into my being. She planted whispers of possibility in me, ideas and experiences that could and would lead me far beyond what I might have otherwise been. Yet, at least one of the seeds grew into a suspicion, and then a notion, and then a belief that my sister and I weren’t good enough. We were backward in her eyes, but — at least at that time — we were the only grandchildren she had. So she kept working on us.
Each summer ended. Each visit closed. Each seed grew, and the family grew as well. New children eventually came, and just as quickly as their doors opened, ours closed.
It was hard to be overlooked by someone who meant so much — someone to whom I thought I meant so much. But her new grandchildren were bright and new. Their gardens needed planting, their souls tending. I knew that she loved us still — her first grandchildren — but as grandmother, she was gone. I went my own way, with everything she had infused in me as a touchstone for my own dreams.
She became someone else’s grandmother, but I never let go of the line that connected my heart to hers.
Sad? I used to think so. I didn’t see the gift in this for another twenty-five years. It was a slow blooming gift, but more beautiful for the wait. You see, in relinquishing her role as grandmother, yet loving me still, she opened a new door — a place where we could meet not as a grand-mother/child but as two women.
Apart from her personal pain-body, every woman has her share in what could be described as the collective female pain-body… This consists of accumulated pain suffered by women partly through male subjugation of the female, through slavery, exploitation, rape, childbirth, child loss, and so on, over thousands of years.
Eckhart Tolle, The New Earth
It took time for me to understand that the knowing and affirmation she gave me as a woman was even more powerful than tending my garden-soul as a child. Yes, she planted seeds of strength and possibility in my childhood. Yes, those seeds grew into a forest canopy under which I sought refuge from the worst storms in my life. Yes, it was a forest of strength, fortitude, and belief.
But as a woman, she allowed me to see a lifetime of pain that she never belabored, and would never share with a child.
She weathered her own storms, many of them fierce. She survived a marriage to a man who disgraced her again and again, and another to an alcoholic whose affliction was ultimately his demise. She survived a divorce in a time and place where it wasn’t widely accepted. She raised four children, planting them into this world with roots that only she could give them, tending their souls amidst her own chaos. She stood firm again and again, rejecting what was unacceptable and embracing what was love. She made her decisions and walked in them with her head high.
When times were hard, she’d say, “It is what it is.” When the difficulty passed, she’d say, “It’s in the ago,” to remind you that it was gone. She carried her body of pain with grace, acceptance, and determination. By sharing her experiences and wisdom with me, she showed me that I could do the same. The seeds that she planted so long ago are now nourished by the light of her wisdom.
At the end of her life, I’m not sure she was ready to let go.
Her mind and soul seemed ready and eager to keep breathing and learning and doing this adventure called life. But her body failed her. I believe she knew she had nothing to fear. I believe she knew the parts of us that matter are eternal. The rest is a brief flash of color, and then in the ago. It is what it is, right?
The day that she died, a beautiful baby girl came into the world. A good friend of mine became a grandmother to this baby. One thing ends, another begins — because it never *really* ends, it just keeps going.
I know my grandma isn’t gone. She’s just in the next place, breathing and learning and doing the adventure that comes wherever we go next, and possibly — just possibly — planting some red ferns in this one.
I know she’s keeping a close eye on all of us.
In a few weeks, I will converge with friends and family to celebrate her together one last time. I know she’ll be pleased with such a good party. At some point, my own spirit will retreat to deal with its sadness, under the forest canopy she helped me plant where I’ve weathered so many storms. I know she’ll see that too, and I believe she will understand.
When I emerge again, I’ll make my decisions and walk in them with my head high. I’ll stand firm, dismissing what is unacceptable and embracing love. I’ll continue breathing and learning and doing the adventure called life, and I’ll be grateful for everything she gave me. The rest will be in the ago.