Grandmothers

Ian, Mr. Write On over at And I Still Think So, posted on grandmothers today, which is noteworthy because my own grandmothers have been in my thoughts a lot recently. First, I wrote about two of them here not too long ago (and yes, during both Cam and Mrs. Pike's visit and Dr. B's visit, I went barefoot. Family v. company, I guess. Digressing, Pobble...). But also, I have had occasion to tell stories about them recently, too.

My second maternal grandmother (technically, she was a step, but we never thought of each other that way) was a rancher woman who married a fancy city lawyer (my grandfather) and brought her sense of propriety and pragmatism with her when she moved from the plains of west Texas into the suburbs of Dallas. My first house had hardwood floors, so I wrote her ~ the most proper woman I knew (with no apologies to my mother, who was, is, and always will be far too free spirited to worry too much about being proper) ~ asking how to care for them. Her response? Oh, honey, I have no idea. My hardwoods were walked on all day, every day, by dirty ranch hands. I was just grateful if they took their boots off before tramping through the living room. Yet this same woman could host a formal dinner party for the partners at the most exclusive supper club in the city, without batting an eye. 

My paternal grandmother was sweet, plain and simple. Her greatest pride her whole life was being Mrs. Papa Pobble. She helped minister to my grandfather's congregations in a way I can only now, as an adult, even begin to comprehend. When my grandfather went to war in WWII, she went and bought a red hat, because preachers' wives couldn't wear red hats, but soldiers' wives could. I swear, it was the most daring thing she ever did. To this day, she is the most gentle soul I have ever encountered.

My first (biological) maternal grandmother died when my own mother was 16, so I never knew her, but I have always felt amazingly connected to her. I remember wanting to hear stories about her from her friends, her sisters, my mother. As a child, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about her, but then, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about anything, which is an opportunity I greatly miss.

Now, I am a grandmother. It's not a title I wear often, but my daughter (step, technically, but since she doesn't use the "step" part, I don't either; she's my kid) gets great joy in using the title when referring to me, so I guess I am one. My daughter and I met when she was pregnant with her first child and I explained that I would love that baby, that I would spoil that baby, that I would visit that baby ~ but that I wouldn't, under any circumstances, hold that baby. I don't hold babies, I don't care whose they are. When Lithus and I walked into the hospital room, my daughter's other mother was holding the baby. She and I had never met before but we grinned at each other, as grandmothers. As is wont to happen, she asked if I wanted to hold the baby and went to pass him to me ~ when my darling daughter, still exhausted from delivery sits up, announces "Pobble doesn't hold babies!" and flopped back down again.

Now, I have two grandchildren. Honestly, I am expecting a third before too much longer, because my girl is finally married to a man who adores her and treats her well and who deserves to be the father of her children (and who doesn't use the prefix "step" any more than anyone else in this post ever did). So, yeah, I'm expecting a third one of these days.

Circumstances and personality keep me from ever being the grandmother my grandmothers were, and I'm okay with that. But I think about my grandchildren. And I think about my grandmothers. And I realize I am part of a long line of pretty amazing women and, even though I never expected to be here, I'm okay with that, too.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.