Memories of Grandma

As I continue this blogging thing, I can't help but be reminded of my grandmother. My grandmother journaled. If she were alive today, I'm pretty sure she'd be a blogger. The big difference between her journals and blogging would be the privacy thing. My blogs are out there for everyone to read. Hers were private. I knew she journaled but never read one of hers until well after she had passed. Most of journals were gone. She'd burned them shortly after the death of her husband. I learned that from one of the two journals that remained in my mother's possession. A few years ago, my mother shared one with me. I immediately took it to the quick print shop and made a copy. Many times since copying it, I've sat down and read passages. Fascinating the things I learned and never knew about her.  She didn't need a fancy journal.  She wrote on standard ruled paper and saved them in three ring binders. Her hand writing never changed. She would write about just about anything. She wrote passages from books she'd read, quotes from magazines, recipes she came across, stories about her family, words she had learned, jokes she'd heard. Her writing was, yes, very random and sometimes awkward.

More than a few times, I've been compared to my grandmother. A compliment, I guess. Gizzella Ethel, that was actually her name, was a bit, as one might say, eccentric. Thank goodness my mother didn't decide to name me after her. Had I been, I'm pretty certain it wouldn't have been shortened to Elle whereby I could have gone on to New York and become a super model. The "smart one" assuredly would have called me Gizzy and lord knows where I'd be!  Back to dear old granny, let's just say Gizzella "marched to the beat of her own drum." She grew poison ivy because she "liked the way it looked." Rescued wild animals, including a rabid raccoon. Lacked in the domestic department, often having one of her granddaughters clean her whole house for $5...I later learned the "smart one" got $10 and the "pretty one" got paid but didn't clean. She was artistic and loved to draw horses, probably because she spent so much time at the track betting on them. Not that any of here grandchildren minded because we all tagged along at one time or another. She was colorful. Her kitchen was papered in bright yellow and neon orange floral wallpaper. In fact, I think she had an outfit that matched. She could walk to the field in her backyard and gather what were mostly weeds and transform them into a beautiful bouquet. Her epileptic dog, Pepé, was a constant companion. She admitted wanting to try smoking pot (pretty sure she probably did).  She cared about people, but didn't care what people thought. Writing about her makes me realize maybe people were right. The apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, even if there is a generation in between.

"Think of your journal as a psychoanalyst's couch, a confession. Lie down and talk, talk, talk, talk. Ramble on about irrelevances or else list in order your sins. Repeat over and over as you peel away each layer of onion skin to the core. Explore your depths, dreams, fantasies, truths." —written in Gizzella's journal, author unknown.

Random thoughts from a 50 year old.
Vicki