My Grandmothers Gave Me Roots and Wings

Grandma was safe. Nana Kaye was a feminist before her time. Grandma gave me roots, Nana Kaye wings – the kind that help you soar, not just flutter out of the nest or hop from branch to branch.

I often get asked, “What, do you think, helped you craft a decent life given your family’s history?” When my therapist first posed the question, I couldn’t say. Now perhaps I can. There appear to be common threads in resilience. A bad childhood is not a life sentence.

As early as I can remember, Grandma was. Roly-poly, fluffy haired, barely five feet tall, her infectious laughter sparkled. When I got lost surrounded by a plethora of adopted siblings, she welcomed my worried little self. I could be brittle with apprehension, but her ability to make me feel special, her in-the-moment warmth and strength, was a delicious aftertaste I savored. She listened without judgment. Offered advice with humor. Gave me a welcoming hug and kiss, which I sponged up thirstily. She was pastel in the technicolor of my turbulent household. Calm. Peaceful. Gentle. I loved her with all my heart. She was the rock I clung to, or rested upon, depending on my need. When we were in Africa, she was the invisible thread that tethered me to hope. Grandma’s gifts were thoughtful, practical, and usually delivered in the paper bag the store provided.

Nana Kaye, my Dad’s mother, was a surprise I discovered as a teenager. Disliked by my mother and therefore distanced, it wasn’t until I began forming my own opinions that curiosity (make that rebellion) took me to her. I liked her sense of style. While Mom snorted in disdain at our being greeted at the door by my slender peignoir attired Nana Kaye, I grinned in appreciation. She was regular with her manicures, pedi’s and hair appointments. Her style? Elegant. I connected to her heart the day I called her about Stephanie. Without hesitation, on the basis of my call, she welcomed an abused girl into her home. Nana Kaye’s gifts were traditional chic and exquisitely wrapped. On my 21^st birthday she gifted me with a delicate pearl ring that had been given her by a grandfather I had never known. When my children were born, I received embossed silver cups.

Grandma taught me the art of reframing. Not pictures, thoughts. Perceptions. At first I thought she was making excuses for people, or events. And on occasion, perhaps she was. But more often than not, she expanded the picture. Took it from black and white, to striations of gray; found a “hidden truth” about me and turned it from a negative self-portrait to a positive one. If I needed to be held accountable, she would do so but with a touch of humor so I could laugh wryly at myself instead of heading to my woodshed (the place one goes to give oneself a good whooping).

I did not tell either grandmother of our incestuous family. It was my nuclear family’s secret. Our “normal.” And when I left home, I erroneously figured since I was gone, it was over. But when I found my father playing the childhood game “Tiger” (always a prelude to molestation) with my children, I acted to protect them.

I ‘lost’ my Grandma the day I told her about Dad. Her response of shocked disbelief, her request that I not speak of this again, took me to my knees. No stranger to grief, our interrupted relationship impacted me profoundly. It’s temporary, I told myself. She simply needed time to assimilate the magnitude of it all. To wrap her head and heart around the wounds to her grandchildren, to deal with the fact that her daughter was still married to this man, and that Grandma and Granddad lived on their property and were, in a sense, beholden to them (her perspective). I consoled myself with this reframed self-talk to keep my heart from crumbling. I reminded myself that with or without her understanding, trust, or belief, I still had my children to protect. It was cold comfort.

And then she was killed in an auto accident.

I remember walking out into my beautiful backyard that afternoon after receiving the call. In shock, my knees buckled, and I leaned over myself until my head touched the grass sobbing “no, no, no.” I clenched handfuls of grass ripping it from the ground as memories crushed up against the last vestige of my control.

For days, weeks, even months afterward, a hundred foot wave of grief would swamp me at the most unexpected times. I wrote pages and pages of memories. Soothed by these thoughts of her, pearls of her wisdom peeked through my shadowed self. “Put that beautiful mind to work on it, Laura, you can figure it out.” (I’m smart. I can solve problems.) “There’s always a solution. You just have to look for it.” (I’m not boxed in, cornered. There is a way through.) “I’m sorry your Mom is down with a headache again, but you be sure and take care of you, okay?” (Self-care) “When someone is unkind, after you get over being ticked off (she’d smile then), think about what that person may be facing right now.” (Walk a mile in their shoes.)

My years with her; her love, her wisdom, but perhaps most importantly her gentle mentorship coalesced one day when with a flash of insight I knew she knew! Now, beyond this finitude, she knew the truth of it. She would know why I was doing what I was doing. I imagined her telling me how proud she was of my courage. Didn’t she always tell me I had determination? Strength? Will? All of a sudden, I had my Grandma back again. I talked to her about everything, sometimes just in my head, but occasionally I’d say out loud, “Hey Grandma…” and tell her I felt her with me today.

Nana Kaye’s life was an exemplar of resilience, widowed young with eight children to raise. The older I grew the more I admired this “Steel Magnolia.” Although I had far less time with her than I had with Grandma, I see traits in me I’ll attribute to her – gladly. Courage, feisty spirit, at home with solitude, appreciation of beauty, and the sense that if you can imagine it, you can find it.

Neither of my grandmothers would have termed my keen observation of their character, my reliance on their love, resilience building for me, but it was. So, in answer to the question, “What kept your feet on the ground, given your family’s history?” I had two very special role models. How lucky for me.