Grandma
Under her dining room table
Wendy and I would play house.
When my cat brought me an off'fring,
Grandma would deal with the mouse.
Spiders she'd kill in my bedroom;
with homework she would assist -
when I had something to finish,
it was her aid I'd enlist.
There, at her dining room table,
I read aloud without fear,
while she sat near in her rocker
lending a listening ear.
Most her time spent in that corner -
there in her old rocking chair -
reading or doing the crosswords;
knitting the mittens we'd wear.
Wasn't a Gram who baked cookies -
just Christmas cake once a year -
her breakfast, toast and black coffee,
those scorched smells in memory clear.
She got riled when we were "saucy";
threatening with her paint stick -
offered her bed after nightmares;
ginger tea when we were sick.
When I was small we'd go walking.
She held my hand on the street.
Later, I repaid protection
as steadiness left her feet.
Everything changed when we lost her.
There was an echo upstairs.
Memories clung to the rooms there -
I saw her at tables; in chairs.
Hers, a huge role in my childhood -
proud of my efforts to learn
she'd hear the stories I'd written
and offer pages to turn.
She kept me honest and humble;
looks weren't important because -
quoting a favorite adage -
"Pretty is as pretty does."
Not quite a typical grandma -
without a doubt she had quirks -
but, looking back on my childhood,
her presence was one of the perks.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 23, 2019
If my paternal grandmother was still alive she'd be celebrating a birthday in a day or two, turning one hundred and twenty three.
I grew up in a multi-generational household. When my father built the house I grew up in, the entire second floor was intended to be an apartment for his mother - two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room and a half bath. (She used the bathtub downstairs, like the rest of us.) By the time my parents had their fourth child - finally a son! - the second bedroom upstairs was called into service for their three daughters to sleep in. As their fifth child, I shared the second main floor bedroom with my older brother until we were five and seven. At that point my mother was expecting her sixth child, and my parents decided to build an additional bedroom in the basement for my two oldest sisters, and move me upstairs with my next oldest sister. The baby - my younger brother - would share a room with my older brother for as long as it was feasible.
Thus, at the age of almost six I was promoted to life upstairs in Grandma's territory. I had always spent a lot of time with Grandma - she babysat me during the day when my mother worked - but once my bedroom was upstairs I probably spent 75% of my time either in my room or in her living room.
My grandmother was a former schoolteacher. She wasn't the sort of person to make a huge fuss over children, and she might not have been the most popular teacher around, but I'm guessing she was probably an effective educator. If my experience with her was anything to go by, she enjoyed watching children learn. From a very early age she encouraged my imagination. She and I used to play "Hide and Go Seek" - but with a twist. Always a fairly sedentary soul she didn't often leave her rocking chair in the corner, so we pretended we were two inches tall, and imagined where, in her living room, we would hide. I often chose a spot in her china cabinet, which was full of teacups and decorative "knick knacks" that two inch me could hide in or behind. I cheated like crazy, often changing imaginary locations when she guessed my location too soon. She probably knew this, but seemed happy enough to keep on knitting while guessing where I was.
When I started school my grandmother always took an avid interest in what I was learning. I usually did my homework at her dining room table, which was pushed into a corner in her her living room. She didn't own a television, so it was quiet up there, except for those rare occasions when she'd turn on her radio. As an added bonus, she was always happy to help me if I couldn't sound out a word or needed help with a math problem. As I got older, I tested every assignment on her. She helped me practice oral assignments, and proof read my book reports and projects. I always loved to write stories, and Grandma usually heard them first.
I always thought of my other grandmother - my mother's mother - as being more of a quintessential "grandmother". She was an incredible cook and baker. She kept an immaculate house and always had fresh preserves to share. Grandma wasn't like that. Her apartment was always covered in a fine layer of dust, she didn't bake - except for an annual Christmas cake when I was small - and her meals were so simple, and scanty - that by the time I was in my early teens my parents were inviting her to eat supper with us almost every evening. (My mom actually worried that she was malnourished.) It is safe to say that Grandma Flood was not well versed in the domestic arts!
She read a lot, in her later years mostly Harlequin romances, which she called her "stories". She did crossword puzzles endlessly, and played countless games of solitaire. She knitted a lot of mittens and slippers. The gifts she gave her grandchildren reflected her interests - books, and mitts and/or slippers were the usual Christmas gifts, and for birthdays a few dollars inside a card. She encouraged my love of reading; I couldn't sit and read on her couch without her asking me what book I was reading and whether I was enjoying it. When I laughed out loud she always wanted me to read her the funny part.
I think there are valuable lessons learned from growing up in a household that includes grandparents.
My grandmother wasn't a social butterfly, but she welcomed company. Her older sister, Lila, was a frequent guest, and her brother Melvin - who snored like a mating moose - spent a lot of time at our house in her later years. I learned to be very comfortable around older people, which I think is an advantage to living with the elderly when you are young. I valued my grandmother's wisdom - true, there were eye rolling moments when she said something that demonstrated outmoded attitudes - but I respected the fact that she had gained some valuable knowledge and experience over the course of her life. As she got older, and I witnessed the decline of her health, I learned that aging takes its toll. I witnessed "episodes" of senility - days when she pulled her pantyhose up over her dress and acted strangely. I learned the importance of looking out for the elderly when she needed me to take her by the arm when we walked to the store. She taught me a level of caring that too few youth experience today.
A few months before my eighteenth birthday my grandmother had a stroke. I was the one who found her, sprawled half in and half out of the rocking chair in the corner.
"Help, me - move me!" she slurred through a down turned mouth. I ran next door, and our neighbours came to help make her comfortable while we waited for an ambulance. My parents came home from church, and I helped make phone calls to my older siblings. I took my turn sitting beside her bed until she died. As far as I know, those words she said to me were the last she spoke coherently.
Her death taught me about grief. The hole left behind when someone you love - someone who has played a huge role in your life - is suddenly gone. Through losing her I learned valuable lessons about compassion, lessons that most of my peers had yet to learn.
My grandmother helped me in many ways in my youth. Her presence in my life taught me valuable lessons about family, education, learning and loving. Remembering her life, and the way it impacted mine, moves me constantly. Remembering how she always wanted a goodnight kiss motivated me to be sure my husband and sons never went to sleep without one. Remembering how she loved to see me read, I bought my children books. Remembering how frail she became has motivated me to try to live an active, healthy life. Growing old is inevitable, if we live long enough, but eating well and moving more as we age will help the process be more gradual and pleasant.
I often wonder what she would have thought of my husband, or my sons. She's been gone from my life more than twice as long as she was in it, but she is a constant presence in it still.
Happy Birthday, Grandma! Thank you for being a good teacher.
Thursday 25 July 2019
Monday 8 July 2019
Let's Hear it for the Boys! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
For My Boys:
We say hello as strangers;
we say goodbye as friends.
What's established in between -
it never really ends.
I know I'm not your parent
and that you'll have to leave,
but to me you're important
and when you go I'll grieve.
My house feels far too empty -
I miss your presence here;
and though goodbyes are painful,
I hope that this is clear:
I'm glad I got to know you
and though you've gone away,
I hope to reassure you
that in my heart you'll stay.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 7, 2019
Almost two years ago my husband and I embarked on a new adventure when we agreed to become host parents to international students attending the local high school.
My husband had heard a presentation given by the local exchange program coordinator, and one of her then-current students, and was quite enthusiastic about the two of us hosting students. I, on the other hand, required some convincing. I was worried about privacy concerns, and a bit daunted by the idea of opening my home to strangers. I'm also not much of a cook, and I worried about keeping teenagers decently fed.
I'm glad that I was able to move past my concerns and agreed to become a host parent, because the experience has enriched my life immensely.
The first student we had came to us mid-semester. He wasn't a good fit with his first host family, and when he came to our home it was clear to me that he was lonely. He really wanted some time and attention from us so that he could improve his English skills before he returned to Brazil. He was sweet and smart, and grateful for everything we could do for him and everything we gave him. He kept me company when my husband as busy, and became adept at playing my favourite games. I soon I realized that I really liked having this boy around - I enjoyed his laughter and his thirst for knowledge. He complimented my iffy cooking skills and made me feel useful. I never imagined the wave of grief I'd feel when he left...
Our second student wasn't a good fit with our family's culture. She went on to another home after six weeks, leaving me feeling that I had completely failed as a host mother. It took a while for me to be able to assess the situation with clarity, and accept that we simply wouldn't hit it off with every student. That situation also helped us set some parameters as host parents. Since I spend more time with the students than my husband does, and because I have two sons of my own, and no daughters, I decided I was more comfortable hosting boys.
I'm not going to tell you that I got over that second experience quickly, but I'm convinced that having her go elsewhere was the best decision for all concerned. Four months after she left our home, we were offered the opportunity to host a boy from Italy for ten months. Because I felt I had "failed" with my last student I took some convincing, but decided to try it again - and I'm so glad I did! Our Italian son was a joy from the moment he arrived with his ready smile, cheerful disposition and generous nature. After he'd lived with us for about a week, I was already so heartened by the experience that when asked if we'd be willing to host another student from Brazil, I said yes without hesitation.
I hoped that my two students would become friends, and they surpassed my expectations in that way, and a whole lot of other ways too. At a time in my life when I was feeling a bit blue and a more than bit aimless, they cheered me up and gave me purpose. They ate my mediocre meals without complaining, and let me know that they loved my desserts. We had long conversations and laughed together like lunatics. They took my unsolicited advice stoically, and even offered a bit of their own on occasion. They taught me that friendships can cross generations - and I've since learned that they can cross continents too.
At the end of the first semester, our Brazilian student went home. I cried for days. He and I had become great friends, in part because his English skills were already so good when he arrived that there were no linguistic barriers to overcome. I pulled myself together and welcomed another Brazilian student into our home eight days after his departure.
Our third Brazilian student was harder for me to get to know, but he came to me for help with his English, and it was very gratifying to see how quickly he began to master the language. He proved to be smart, determined, and helpful. When I went to visit my son for a week, both boys assisted my husband with meals and housework, and when I came home they let me know they had missed me.
Our students become family to us; they share our meals and are part of our holiday and family celebrations. We don't just house them and feed them - we enjoy them. We listen to them and try to build their self esteem. When our second Brazilian student arrived, I explained to him and his Italian "brother" that I admired their courage - I knew it had to be hard for them to come to Canada from so far away - to immerse themselves in a foreign language and culture, and to live with strangers.
"But - " I added, "it's hard for us too. We invite you to live with us without knowing who you are or whether we'll all get along. We just hope it all works out."
For our family, hosting has worked out wonderfully. Our older son lives with us, and though he is more than a decade older than our students, he becomes friends with them, and misses them when they leave. My younger son, married and living far away, always asks how things are going with our students. My mother buys them Christmas presents, and hugs them when she has her last visit with them before they leave.
Let me tell you - those departures are hard! We said goodbye to our third Brazilian eleven days ago, and to our Italian student eight days ago. I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't a teary week. My mother asked me how I could keep hosting when it is so hard to watch them go. I told her that I couldn't consider not doing this again when I now have additional sons on two continents!
I hope we will be able to open our home to more boys in the autumn. Our lives are happier because of the friendships we have built - and I'd love to see this hosting tradition continue. Every message I get from "my boys" fills my heart with gratitude for the opportunity I had to be a their "mom" for a short period of time, and their friend for the rest of my days; every video chat reminds me that the goodbyes are never final.
We are all part of each others' lives now, no matter how far apart we are.
We say hello as strangers;
we say goodbye as friends.
What's established in between -
it never really ends.
I know I'm not your parent
and that you'll have to leave,
but to me you're important
and when you go I'll grieve.
My house feels far too empty -
I miss your presence here;
and though goodbyes are painful,
I hope that this is clear:
I'm glad I got to know you
and though you've gone away,
I hope to reassure you
that in my heart you'll stay.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 7, 2019
Almost two years ago my husband and I embarked on a new adventure when we agreed to become host parents to international students attending the local high school.
My husband had heard a presentation given by the local exchange program coordinator, and one of her then-current students, and was quite enthusiastic about the two of us hosting students. I, on the other hand, required some convincing. I was worried about privacy concerns, and a bit daunted by the idea of opening my home to strangers. I'm also not much of a cook, and I worried about keeping teenagers decently fed.
I'm glad that I was able to move past my concerns and agreed to become a host parent, because the experience has enriched my life immensely.
The first student we had came to us mid-semester. He wasn't a good fit with his first host family, and when he came to our home it was clear to me that he was lonely. He really wanted some time and attention from us so that he could improve his English skills before he returned to Brazil. He was sweet and smart, and grateful for everything we could do for him and everything we gave him. He kept me company when my husband as busy, and became adept at playing my favourite games. I soon I realized that I really liked having this boy around - I enjoyed his laughter and his thirst for knowledge. He complimented my iffy cooking skills and made me feel useful. I never imagined the wave of grief I'd feel when he left...
Our second student wasn't a good fit with our family's culture. She went on to another home after six weeks, leaving me feeling that I had completely failed as a host mother. It took a while for me to be able to assess the situation with clarity, and accept that we simply wouldn't hit it off with every student. That situation also helped us set some parameters as host parents. Since I spend more time with the students than my husband does, and because I have two sons of my own, and no daughters, I decided I was more comfortable hosting boys.
I'm not going to tell you that I got over that second experience quickly, but I'm convinced that having her go elsewhere was the best decision for all concerned. Four months after she left our home, we were offered the opportunity to host a boy from Italy for ten months. Because I felt I had "failed" with my last student I took some convincing, but decided to try it again - and I'm so glad I did! Our Italian son was a joy from the moment he arrived with his ready smile, cheerful disposition and generous nature. After he'd lived with us for about a week, I was already so heartened by the experience that when asked if we'd be willing to host another student from Brazil, I said yes without hesitation.
I hoped that my two students would become friends, and they surpassed my expectations in that way, and a whole lot of other ways too. At a time in my life when I was feeling a bit blue and a more than bit aimless, they cheered me up and gave me purpose. They ate my mediocre meals without complaining, and let me know that they loved my desserts. We had long conversations and laughed together like lunatics. They took my unsolicited advice stoically, and even offered a bit of their own on occasion. They taught me that friendships can cross generations - and I've since learned that they can cross continents too.
At the end of the first semester, our Brazilian student went home. I cried for days. He and I had become great friends, in part because his English skills were already so good when he arrived that there were no linguistic barriers to overcome. I pulled myself together and welcomed another Brazilian student into our home eight days after his departure.
Our third Brazilian student was harder for me to get to know, but he came to me for help with his English, and it was very gratifying to see how quickly he began to master the language. He proved to be smart, determined, and helpful. When I went to visit my son for a week, both boys assisted my husband with meals and housework, and when I came home they let me know they had missed me.
Our students become family to us; they share our meals and are part of our holiday and family celebrations. We don't just house them and feed them - we enjoy them. We listen to them and try to build their self esteem. When our second Brazilian student arrived, I explained to him and his Italian "brother" that I admired their courage - I knew it had to be hard for them to come to Canada from so far away - to immerse themselves in a foreign language and culture, and to live with strangers.
"But - " I added, "it's hard for us too. We invite you to live with us without knowing who you are or whether we'll all get along. We just hope it all works out."
For our family, hosting has worked out wonderfully. Our older son lives with us, and though he is more than a decade older than our students, he becomes friends with them, and misses them when they leave. My younger son, married and living far away, always asks how things are going with our students. My mother buys them Christmas presents, and hugs them when she has her last visit with them before they leave.
Let me tell you - those departures are hard! We said goodbye to our third Brazilian eleven days ago, and to our Italian student eight days ago. I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't a teary week. My mother asked me how I could keep hosting when it is so hard to watch them go. I told her that I couldn't consider not doing this again when I now have additional sons on two continents!
I hope we will be able to open our home to more boys in the autumn. Our lives are happier because of the friendships we have built - and I'd love to see this hosting tradition continue. Every message I get from "my boys" fills my heart with gratitude for the opportunity I had to be a their "mom" for a short period of time, and their friend for the rest of my days; every video chat reminds me that the goodbyes are never final.
We are all part of each others' lives now, no matter how far apart we are.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)