Birthdays

In the 19-aughts, my grandmother, born 99 years ago today, was a tiny girl in a midwestern town, no doubt doted upon by her homemaker mother and executive father.

In the teens, she grew up and went off to board at the Columbus School for Girls.  Somewhere in that time period, maybe a year or two later, she met her future husband, on a golf outing with their respective fathers.

In the 1920s, she was graduated from a Seven Sisters College and married my grandfather on the same day.  She was by all accounts a brilliant student, but largely untouched by the movement that had just resulted in women's suffrage.

By the end of the 30s, she was the mother of three sons, living on a quiet street in a small town, my grandfather's and great-grandfather's business ("Hay-Coal-Seed-Fertilizer-Water") having scraped through the Depression.

She and her family waited out World War II in the 40s and her sons, too young for the military, went off to school in New Hampshire. (Insert: A Separate Peace.)

In the 50s, her grandchildren began to arrive and her new home, built on a picturesque hillside in the country, became a haven for little people.

In the 1960s, tragedy began to strike, with the loss of a daughter in-law and grandson (my family) to a car accident. The 60s also saw the beginning of my grandmother's career as a world traveler, always accompanied by grandchildren.  She gave up on my grandfather, who wouldn't set foot on a plane or a boat, and eventually made it to Europe, Africa, Australia, and the Pacific Islands.

In the 70s she lost two more daughters-in-law in rapid succession.  She was beginning to age, but her home, with its brick patio and lemonade under a maple tree, was always the most welcoming place in our world.

In the eighties she became a great-grandmother and lost her husband.  She listened  to  her granddaughter, though, and had a hip replaced and managed one last trip, a birding jaunt to Trinidad and Tobago, before depression and deafness began their evil incursions into her life.

As the 90s passed, she aged rapidly.  She moved into an assisted living facility and her house was turned over to various members of the younger generations as they went through miscellaneous life transitions. She is a shrunken version of her former self, her bones as brittle as bones can be and her skin like paper, easily bruised and torn.

Today,  her still-keen mind trapped behind the veil of blindness and deafness, she struggles for meaning in daily life.  Help her on with her coat and help her feel her way to her walker, and she speeds down the hallway like a demon, eager for the car ride that will release her from the confines of her physical life.  But much of her time is spent alone, encased in darkness and silence.  She is much burdened by the knowledge that her middle son has been widowed a third time, and frustrated by her inability to understand what her great-grandchildren are up to. 

I read last night that only 1 in 10,000 Americans makes it to the age of 100.  My grandmother -- who told me when she was 80 that "there is just no point to this hip operation -- I'll be dead in two years!" -- seems to be on her way.

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On another note, my journal is ONE year old today.  I have never before in my life managed a journal for more than a few consecutive days, so I think a little celebration is in order.  Happy Birthday to Me, Too!