Oh, the joy of being at Grandma’s!
As a little girl, my mother was occasionally treated to a
visit at her grandmother’s home. In the
30’s, in a very tightly run German household, there wasn’t much wiggle room –
but these two managed to carve some out.
It took a little work on both their parts. Although the ground rules were different
here, Grandma let little Emily know what the expectations were. Adjustments were made by both parties: less
tap-dancing in the hall for Emily, more flexibility around bedtimes for
Grandmother; banister sliding was verboten (even if she did look like Shirley
Temple); crystal goblets at dinner - not an intelligent option. There was a period of “settling in” –
especially during those first visits, but patience will out and things went
well enough for repeat performances.
Even when things didn’t go as smoothly as she’d planned, Grandmother still
remarked on her hesitation to wipe the little fingerprints off the window
panes. They stayed there for a long time
- a sweet reminder of a happy time. Quite
a comment, considering the cleaning requirements demanded weekly dusting even
the backs of the pictures on the walls!
Emily knew she was so loved that her grandmother couldn’t part with the
ten little smudges.
When my own children had “special visits” at their Mimi’s
house some 40 years later, I always received an appreciative call from Emily - now the GOM [Grandmother Of Many].
She reported enthusiastically on all the fun they had and told how tenderly
she regarded (and preserved from the cleaning rag) the fingerprints on her
otherwise sparkling fridge. The call invariably
ended with her fingerprint remembrances of her grandmother. ..the tangible
proof of their love for one another.
I listened politely.
But as a young mother of four, I thought it touching, if not slightly
melodramatic - and certainly
impractical. At that point in my life I would have done anything to have
a clean house with fewer streaks, mars, and prints which seemed to engulf us
from ceiling to floor.
Fast forward to yesterday.
We’ve now layered some 40 more years onto our family cake. Somewhere along the way, my name has morphed
from “Mommy” to “Nani.” And after a joy-filled
weekend of naniing a trio of my own little grands, I had some tidying up to
do.
Guess who found herself standing in the dining room at her
glass top table with Windex in hand, a rag at the ready, and tears running down
her cheeks! That would be me. Tiny little fingerprints on the underside of
that table allowed me to finally understand what my mother and grandmother and
great grandmother had learned. You can
choose to clean away smudges, but the message of love lasts forever.
I may try to explain this phenomenon to my daughter … but
she probably won’t understand for another generation.
Christie Clarke
Nov 2012
