Memories

Stormy Weather

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At six, eight, ten, thirteen, I was not afraid of storms, and even loved the electric crackle of lightning, and the distant (and not-so-distant) booming of thunder, which I imagined as a conversation among mythic figures, like the Greek gods and goddesses I read about in stories. As recently as 2019, I got excited when a storm bore my name, though of course I feel horrible about the damage caused by Hurricane Melissa, especially in the Carolinas.

It wasn’t until recently, as I was watching my mother react to a severe storm warning notification, that I recognized that my grandmother hadn’t been so much trying to keep my (non-existent) storm fears at bay as allaying her own.

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Learning to Let Go

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It’s a dilemma we all have as the people we love age, move out of their homes and into ours (or care homes) and eventually die. On the one hand, those family treasures are imbued with a ton of meaning. On the other, they’re just things, and keeping a clock or a table or even my stepfather’s collection of science and match textbooks doesn’t make my memories any stronger, just as donating or selling these things won’t diminish them.  

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Laughter through Tears

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Humor has long been my personal “coping mechanism,” and I often tell people that sarcasm is my second language, but I come by this honestly. Everyone in my family, both blood and chosen, responds with witty comebacks or painful puns, or just bad jokes whenever things are getting tense. Even my husband knows that the best way to shake me out of a gloomy mood is to make me laugh, and I do the same for him.

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Playing Games

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Playing Games

Instantly I’m ten years old, sitting on the ancient beige chintz sofa in my grandparents’ den, racing with my grandfather to see which of us could answer first, while my grandmother made comments about which of us should know the answer. I didn’t know, then, that their daily viewing of this television show was part of my grandmother’s attempt to ensure that my grandfather’s brain remained stimulated and active.

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Walking the Harbor

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At the last pier, there was a bench where we would sit and overlook the boat launch. Sometimes, we’d see people carefully backing their cars toward the water, guiding the boat trailer until there was enough draft to release the vessel, and sometimes we saw the process in reverse, as folks pulled their craft out and got them hitched up on the tow trailer again.

As a child, my first fascination was the boats, and that wonderful shippy-tarry scent that you only have in marinas. As I grew up, I appreciated walking the harbor for the opportunity to spend time with my grandparents outside of their house, away from the endless offerings of sweets and coffee. I had glimpses of them as they had been when they were young and falling in love. I heard stories that never got told at the dining room table. I saw the tenderness in my grandfather’s calloused hand as he reached to help my grandmother navigate a step

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