Around a year or so after grandma died my grandfather and I sat in the garden of the old age home talking.
“I talk to your grandmother every night. Sometimes I look at her picture and do it, but I always talk to her.”
I asked him what he told her and he snorted.
“That is between me and her. None of your business.”
I snorted back and reminded him how he had told his 20 year-old grandson that part of the reason they got married in secret was because my grandmother was a good girl.
Grandpa laughed and said he was always going to marry grandma.
“Julius and Sadie paid for Ida and Al’s wedding. Ida was older and there was no way your great-grandfather had enough cash for us too. The Depression was rough.”
I nodded my head and told him I remembered him saying how his mother had found him and grandma in the same room.
“She did and she made me get out. My mother yelled at me for trying to be alone with my wife, but she didn’t know we were already married then.”
We talked some more and I did all I could to remember it all because I knew one day I wouldn’t be able to hear them first hand.
There are stories you’ll never read.
Some because I won’t remember and some because I won’t tell them.
Not everyone is entitled to know all and some remain locked away or only shared with those who experienced them.
Some of you have received 10,000 letters but I don’t know if you have read them or all or have interest in doing so.
There are tales of adventures, of hope and dreams and fear. There are stories, oh there are stories.
Sometimes I talk to Dad’s picture, but not real often. Depends on my mood and whether it makes me feel foolish.
I don’t need his picture to speak with him or to hear his voice. Sometimes he comes to visit in my dreams.
Don’t ask me to tell you whether it is my imagination or a visit from beyond. I tend not to ask the question and just accept whatever comes from it.
Most of the time if I remember the dream I find it comforting but there have been some that weren’t.
We had a big fight during one dream. I woke up enraged and on fire in a way that was specific to him.
No one else has ever been able to poke at me like that. He once referred to it as parental privilege and said something about how his father had a similar ability.
“It is not a gift or a privilege.”
“No, it’s not. Get’s easier if you are comfortable with who you are and your accomplishments.”
He was right about that. By the time he died I was well beyond the place where it could be done easily. Didn’t mean he couldn’t cause serious aggravation because that never changes, but it was different.
****
Weather app says it is 44 but that it feels like 42 outside.
North Texas may not get as cold as other places but it is damp cold that seeps in the cracks and crevices.
The real cold isn’t here yet but I can feel its approach.
They say the cold we got last year is unlikely to happen this year. Snowmaggedon isn’t an annual event or at least it doesn’t appear to be.
I am pleased by that not because I cannot adjust to snow because I can. I could live anywhere and become accustomed to anything.
Snow doesn’t scare me but it doesn’t excite me either. I don’t find it inviting or entertaining, especially in a city that isn’t built to handle it.
Thought about it the other day because I was asked if I thought I would be up for living in a colder climate and I said for the right opportunity all things are possible.
“Warm is better, but cold isn’t impossible.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I can do whatever I need to. Question is always whether I will want to.”
The question wasn’t phrased well so it took me a moment to figure out that “How many more years?” was supposed to be “how much longer?”
It didn’t refer to a single topic and neither did my answers.
“Until the end of the year for the one and probably fifteen for the other. Could be a little longer, could be a little shorter.”
“How will you decide?”
“I have specific criteria for them, but external influences can impact both.”
“So you are sitting on the fence?”
“No, I am very aware of the circumstances and situations. That is why I have set up criteria to help make decisions. But I am not a fool and I understand the importance of reserving the right to change my mind. Sometimes life happens.”
Interesting tale about the stories we may never read… I’ll add hear. I think it’s because of Dad that I love telling stories whenever I can. Some have a point, some don’t, but it doesn’t matter. I’m at a point in my life where I could use some stories to help me push forward; it’s been a rough last 3 years or so. Mom almost never told stories, which is too bad; I think I could have learned a lot from her in that regard.
Sometimes the push for writing about these moments is it stimulates some memories. I grew up with storytellers around me, especially my grandfathers.
I was fortunate to hear quite a few, some that my parents didn’t. Some of that was because of age and time. There were things they didn’t share because my grandfathers felt they weren’t appropriate when my parents were young.
Some came out after I had been married and a dad for a chunk of years. Since I got into the family history I have learned more stories.
That definitely helped me push forward a bit, sort of make my own luck in a way.