Growing Up With Grandma - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

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.