Hello from Cape Charles,
Seldom does a week pass that I do not have moments where something reminds me of my grandmother. And certainly memories of her, her being my mother the early years of my life, my employer in high school, and my protector of sorts until she passed illustrates how much influence she had upon me. There is no specific thing that prompts my mind to thoughts of her. At times it might be driving and a song (“Nights in White Satin” will do it every time) comes on the radio. It might be the smell of something. If I see the Eastern Star emblem, immediately I think of her. Sitting in the Little Bakery, as recently noted. Smell is a powerful invoker of memory. When I decorated my home on the Acre, though often subconsciously, there were specific items, particular decorating touches that I did that were comfortable because it returned me to my grandparent’s home from the time was I two to four years old. Even the physical space of the property seemed to compel both physical and emotional recollection. The point is simple: my grandmother is my grounding point for most everything I have, how I act, and what I believe is good and appropriate. Certainly, there are people in my life who’ve had important influence since, and I believe they have helped me develop the positives she first gave me.
Stating unequivocally how an individual can make such an impact is profound, and while I’ve always been aware of her importance on me, I am sure the significance, and subsequent admiration, has only grown as I’ve aged. I think that is, in part, because I understand both her actions and her advice much more clearly, maybe more accurately now. She was a profoundly gracious person, and while she could get angry, even then she exhibited extreme restraint. I do not remember her ever raising her voice in my entire life. She might use a tone that demonstrated her displeasure, but that was about the extent of it. As I have often noted, the worst thing she could have said to me was that she was disappointed. What I realize now, with an incredible sadness, was I probably her hurt her feelings and disappointed her more than once, particularly when I did not take the time to see her as often as I should have or when I failed to follow through on a commitment I probably made. I have noted more than once she had been my mother before u entered elementary school, and the summer between my junior and senior year of high school. When my father begged me to come home that fall of 1972, I knew in my heart that any choice I made would hurt someone, and when I returned to the Martin home, I am sure she cried, though I did not see it. Not long after I returned home to the Martin house, my mother had told me, yet again, to get out. I was leaving as my father got home from work, and I told him I was kicked out again. I drove to my grandmother’s bakery and told her I needed to come to her home again. I was shocked when she told me no, she could not allow me to be there again, and I cried and ran to my car. She followed me out to the parking lot trying to explain, but I got into my car and drove away crying. I think now how terrible that must of been for her.
I went to my brother’s and sister-in-law’s apartment that night, and they allowed me to stay there for the night. There are do distinct memories from that next 24 hours or so. First, my brother lit up a joint that night and handed it to me. I told him mom would kill me, and he said, “Shut up and smoke, you’re not going home tonight.” So I did. The next day at school, I was called to the counselor’s office. When I arrived, the counselor, whom I believe was named Mr. Mendenhall, told me they received a phone call from my mother telling me I was to come home after school. Then he asked me if there were any problems. What I know now is I should have probably told them everything, but all I said was “no” and asked if I could go back to class. Somehow, and I am not sure what happened, everything returned to the Martin normal, and what I believe to this day is my father probably put his foot down to some extent, and my mother was mandated to ask me to return to our house.
My grandmother and I never spoke of that day, but I believe it must have been torture for her because she loved me so deeply. I would understand that more fully a bit both less bad into more than a year later when she wrote to me in Marine Corps Boot Camp and into my first duty stations. She wrote me the most supportive and kind letters, and she revealed to me how much she regretted that she had not been able to keep Kris and me, and that she understood and realized the abuse we had endured. She felt profoundly bully, and to some degree, I believe that was why we always spent a good part of our Christmas vacations staying with her. It is why she pulled out all the stops for birthdays and Christmases. She actually bared her soul in her letters, and I had them more some time after I came home from the service. She made me promise to dispose of them so my mother would never find them. I kept that promise, and to some degree, I wish I hadn’t done so because I would give anything to read them now.
As I have noted in other posts, my grandmother is my hero. She was my protector because her love provided such incredible comfort and safety. Her consistent care and her willingness to listen and offer support and compassion was unlike anything I had ever received, both from anyone else and at any point in my life up to today. What I know now is she illustrated as perfectly as I believe anyone could what was require to love another. Now, after being single for more than a quarter century, and after my own failing, what I realize what is required in successfully loving another. Neither disappointment nor pain from being hurt could stop her from loving me with every ounce of her being. When my brother died, it was her presence at their house in South Allan Street that kept me from completely losing it. I still remember her holding me on their back porch as I cried, my head on her shoulder. A few months later, when I was back in Sioux City, I promised to see her before I returned to Ames. Again, I failed to do so. Somehow, perhaps divine intervention, I pulled my motorcycle over at a phone booth on Highway 71, by a Hardee’s, and I called her. First, I apologized for not seeing her, and I promised the next time I was home we would spend time. We had a wonderful conversation and ended our call telling the other how much we loved them. I remember being disappointed in myself for not making time to see her, and yet, finding some solace in stopping to call her. She was as gracious and loving as always. That occurred the end of July.
As the fall began, I had stopped attending classes at Iowa State University, and I was working two jobs. On a Sunday in September I received a call informing me Grandma had died the night before. She was attending an Eastern Star event with her close friend, Bonnie Martin (no relation) in Storm Lake. My grandmother just laid her head in Bonnie’s lap, had said nothing, and was gone. That quickly. She was only 64 year old. Her elder sister, Helen, who was also incredibly important as I grew up managed everything. There was no autopsy, and she managed the estate. While my sister was not pleased with that, I simply trusted that she did the right thing. I remember the day of her funeral was a warm sunny day, but I sobbed uncontrollably as I stood there in Graceland Park. It was barely six months since I stood only 100 yards away at my brother’s funeral. Just recently, as noted in a recent blog, I visited all the family there. I sat on the ground for some time, and I spoke to more than one of them. What I wish I should share with them now. I love you Grandma does not begin to adequately express how you have blessed me, how you influenced me, how to made me into the person I am today. Indeed, your unending love, Amazing Grace.
Thank you as always for reading,
Michael
thewritingprofessor55 