A Thanksgiving
reflection—16 years ago, it was within days of today that my Grandma died. She
was a hard-working, pitiless feminist (although she would not have known the
word ‘feminist’ and, as she was a product of her time and generation, she would
not have thought this term applied to her—yet it did). I loved her with every
cell of my being. When I was very little (pre-school) my sister was chronically
ill, and so my Mom had to stay with her in Calgary, 5 hrs away from where we
lived on the Alberta prairies. My Dad worked every day, and so that meant that
during these long stretches (weeks, sometimes a month or more) I lived with my
Grandparents (and apparently spoke fluent German while I was with them, though
I no longer can do much more than understand snippets here and there—and I sure
know the word liebchen). The
second-language thing made me think, the other day, about how remarkable
Grandma and Grandpa really were: they were both German-as-first-language, and
educated very minimally (Grandpa had Grade 3, Grandma I believe Grade 5), and
spoke German at home almost exclusively until their own sons went to school and
(presumably) introduced English more and more as their vernacular in their
home.
And yet…
Both my
Grandparents were AVID readers. It was Grandma who made me a Harlequin Romance
junkie (I still want Harlequin to
pick me up as an author!), and Grandpa always had a Louis Lamour western on his
sofa. Their chicken coop (once it no longer held chickens!) had box after box
of Harlequins and westerns stored there. Reading was something that was such a ‘given’
with my grandparents, that it is only now, in my 40’s, that I can reflect on
how incredible this really was: two uneducated, German-speaking people who read—fluently
and with great joy—books written in English.
How did they come to read so well? Did their boys (my uncles) teach them? Did
they pick it up on their own? Did their minimal base of English-speaking schooling
take some sort of hold?
When Grandma died,
it was after she was told that her cataracts were inoperable and that she would
never see well enough to read again. It is my belief (with apologies to any
family I may offend by asserting it) that it was losing her beloved ability to
read that pulled the trigger for Grandma to give up and call forth an end to
her life (of natural causes, but on her own terms. What a woman! God, I loved
her! I still do).
The other day I
was chatting with my dear friend Heather—my soul sister—and we agreed that we
don’t think of the best questions to ask our Grandparents until we are mature
enough and seasoned enough to actually have
good questions—and then they are gone. But if Grandma and Grandpa were here
I would ask: Why was reading so important to you? (for clearly it was). What did
you love about it? Was it difficult to master? Who taught or helped you?
I wonder, often,
what Grandma and Grandpa would say if they knew I wrote stories and had a bona-fide
book out there in the big bad world (Grandma would be pissed off about the graphic sex. The swearing would be a-ok,
though ;) )
This Thanksgiving
I am grateful for a heritage and ancestry that’s made me sit in the space of
having these questions and memories. I am grateful my Grandparents were (one
born, one emigrated) Canadians who had the latitude and permission to learn and become something beyond
what they already were.
I am grateful too,
that I miss them—for that means I had the opportunity to know them and love them,
and that I remember how much they also loved me.
Peace and gratitude
be with you this Thanksgiving, friends <3
