My guest this Monday is my dear Sis separated at birth, author JoAnn Durgin. I hope you enjoy her memories of her Granny.
Granny...by JoAnn Durgin
When my dear
friend, Christine (the “Irish sis” of my heart from whom I was separated at
birth) asked me to write about something other
than writing, I jumped at the chance. As much as writing fiction is a driving
passion at this stage of my life, I adore the opportunity to occasionally write
about my “real life.”
Of course, many of
my experiences have eventually found their way into a book. As such, I believe
they lend a certain depth of realism that resonates with the reader. Both good
and bad, bittersweet or joyous, my unique memories have shaped me into the
woman I am today. I’d like to share with you some memories of my Granny, my
Dad’s mother.
I am independent
like Granny. My daughter, Chelsea, resembles her physically and I can see my
grandmother in my daughter’s smile. Granny taught me to be strong in the face
of adversity and follow my dreams. I like to think I inherited some of her
creativity and sense of humor, as well as her positivity and optimism.
When I was
three, my parents divorced—a still rather uncommon event at that time. As she
tells it, my mom was tired of my Dad’s “ridiculous dreams,” including his
elaborate plans to build a bomb shelter in the midst of the Cuban Missile
Crisis and his proclivity to chain smoke cigarettes. In some ways, I’m not sure
he knew how to be a father. But in the quiet ways, he showed us he loved us by
building things with his hands, including an elaborate dollhouse for me,
complete with working electricity and chandeliers hand-beaded by Granny.
After they
divorced, Daddy picked up my older brother and me on alternate weekends and he’d
take us to visit Granny (with whom he lived at the time) a few miles away. She
lived in an old but well-maintained two-story white house on Utica Pike, a
narrow, two-lane road and homes with long, gravel driveways and sweeping front
yards dotted with large weeping willow and gorgeous mimosa trees.
We’d bake apple pies
with fruit we picked in the backyard, string pearls, sip iced tea on the
screened-in summer porch. My brother and I played with some of the same toys
that belonged to my dad and his two brothers—antique toy soldiers probably
worth a small fortune today.
We listened to
her stories of our grandfather’s and father’s respective stints in the Army and
heard many a tale about the great flood of ’37 (the “big one” that destroyed
their favorite puppet show theatre). Stories of when the Ohio River froze over
and they could slip and slide from Indiana to Kentucky. Tales of the Happy
Hunting Grounds, her term for Heaven.
Granny smelled
of peppermints and Jungle Gardenia. She wore handknitted dresses she made with
her increasingly arthritic hands. And she had a stole made from a real fox—head
included—that scared us to death.
Some of my
sweetest memories are sitting in her front yard, cheering on the Belle of
Louisville steamboat as it raced Cincinnati’s Delta Queen on the Ohio River in
late April, a week or two before the Kentucky Derby each year. When I was
seven, Granny took me to the National Doll Club Convention, held in Louisville
that year. I’ll admit I was embarrassed to be dressed up like a doll. Even had
a write-up in the local newspaper, “Living Doll Attends Doll Show” featuring a
photo of me in the dress she made and my doll with a matching outfit. I’ll
never forget the pride in Granny’s voice as she introduced me to her doll club
collector friends and bragged about how talented and special I was.
She believed in me, and I’ll never forget
that.
By this time,
Daddy had remarried and, for various reasons, there was a period of time when
we didn’t see him—or Granny—as much. Before I knew it, I’d graduated from high
school and then college and moved to Dallas, independent and ready to greet the
world and make my mark.
I saw Granny
every time I came home for the holidays and she was spunky and active as ever
although she’d finally moved into a retirement center. She was born for a place
like that.
When she started
painting in her 70s or thereabouts, she called herself a “Grandma Moses
wannabe.” Granny lived the type of life all of us would wish—rich and full with
laughter, faith, family and friends. She had a heart attack at 82, and the Lord
kept her around long enough to gather her three boys beside her to tell them
she loved them before she made the leap into the Happy Hunting Grounds and onto
the next adventure.
Yes, Granny had
a very strong influence on the woman I am today, the mother I am today and yes,
the writer I am today. If you’ve read
my debut novel, Awakening, you might recognize my heroine Lexa’s grandmother,
Nana, down to the details of stringing pearls and sipping tea on the summer
porch. And yes, even a mention of the Happy Hunting Grounds. She taught me
that—with the Lord’s help—I could do whatever I wanted. Dream big. And so I
did.
I trust you have
a “Granny” in your life, whether in
cherished memories or beside you to hold your hand and help you see the best in
people and life’s situations, both good and bad.
Sleep well,
Granny. I love you dearly, and I’ll see you again one day.
Blessings,
friends. Matthew 5:16
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