Day 268: On Your 89th Birthday, Grams is an Original

Today is my only living grandparent’s 89^th birthday and I totally forgot. Well, I didn’t forget, forget, I just never write this shit down and so I didn’t mail her card on time. Grams is 89 and she’s been talking about dying the last 20 years. In the end, I’ve no doubt she will outlast me all while putting down a remarkably large meal and telling anyone who’ll listen that she doesn’t know what else Jesus has planned for her and she’s ready to go any time. Old people are odd and while I give them respect by virtue of the fact that they’ve been kicking for so long and have life experiences I couldn’t possibly fathom at this stage in my life, they kind of mystify me.

I can write this because Grams has never been online and I don’t have any other readers of the geriatric set. Also, I’m just bold enough to outrage anyone who might be reading and not agree. I’ve heard tales of seniors who live to be 80, 90 or beyond and remain spry, working in their gardens, doing things for themselves and even exercising. Then there are wizened souls who offer wisdom with their wrinkles and can tell enthralling stories from their lives. There are even those storybook grandmas who knit everything and run around with aprons on and delicious aromas wafting from their kitchens. These are mentors of future cooks, bakers and knitters. My Grams is . . . well, she’s a strong woman who really is none of these.

I don’t know what to make of Grams, but I know she isn’t the Nana my Mom loved or that my Aunts have turned out to be. No, Grams is a different breed and while she loves her grandkids and great-grands, she never was one to read you a story or bake you cookies. Truth be told, she’s not the Grandmother I always wanted, but in my maturing wisdom I think that may be because I was holding her to an unfair standard. Grams lived through a lot of hardship in her life and looking back, I don’t think she was every really meant to be the mothering type. My Grams was a feminist and none of us, not even her, ever realized it.

She was a socialite. She didn’t like to work, except in that it gave her a certain freedom that being a wife and mother did not provide. She liked looking nice and being seen and while I’m sure she loved all her children, I think she liked the idea more than the reality. Grams was not a feminist in the way that we commonly define it. She certainly did not march for women’s rights, but neither did she want to be tied down to her household dominion. Grams liked men and social engagements and looking nice. She still likes all those things. I think she’s been misjudged because she never truly had that warm, comforting feel to her that children expect from a mother. In a different time, I’m not sure she would have chosen to have kids, but that’s not a crime.

On Grams’ 89^th birthday I think I might just be at the point that I understand her. She has a good heart and a strong love of her family, but she will never be the Grandmother that smells of lilacs and cookies. Maybe I’m more like her than I knew. I could be the modern day equivalent, the one without kids, that lives life according to my terms and never fails to flirt with a nearby looker or take advantage of a self-promoting opportunity. It’s just possible that this woman has been living a life that she felt more forced into than innately drawn to and that’s a shame. I’m glad that she’s mine and that if nothing else, she’s an example to me of why we all need to live the life that suits us and not the one everyone else has. Happy Birthday Grams, I love you.