I don’t think I’ve shared much with you about my Grandmother, Stella. Most certainly, the single-most influential woman in my young life: if there is such a thing as a soul mate, she surely was mine. Grandma was one of those women that had a swagger in her life. Like most who lived during the depression; she had a strong purpose to survive and gave that same purpose to her children: my Father and her daughter, Lillian, my Father’s half-sister. She was the coat of many colors, if there ever was one. Reverent one moment; comforting; sincere and in the twinkle of her eye, she would be kicking up her heels; the belle of the ball. She was a magnet—she could walk into a room, and everyone had to know her—and I gotta say, in Grandma Fashion, she liked it that way.
My Grandma wore many hats. She was a chef at the hospital in Klamath Falls Oregon—always a bright-light on the serving tray of some kind: a flower; a sweet inspirational note; a sugar candy. She believed we live once, and anything we can do to help another smile, was the tincture for human nourishment. She was a cook in a logging camp and many a fun dance was to be had on a Saturday night, with the Oregon moon shining down through those Ponderosa Pines. My Father once recalled a time when he and my Aunt Lillian went up to visit on a Saturday night. There was Grandma, being twirled around the camp. My Father, all but ten, yelled that that is my Mama and you can’t dance with her–only to have a shoe come flying toward him from the banjo player—he spent the rest of the evening hiding under an old camp table. Grandma, like all of us who really live, experienced a litany of disappointments in life. She lost a baby; she lost husbands; she divorced; she was robbed; lied to and yet—she always had a joyful slant on life: Don’t squander it; don’t let another dictate it to you—but live it for yourself. She understood winters discontent was just around the corner and while you were weathering those storms, look for the glisten in the snow; feel its quiet; know—a spring’s love is just around the corner. She believed if you were going to take a risk, take a big one; if you are to make a mistake; make it huge—because that’s when you can really have a belly laugh and learn something, all in one fell swoop. She didn’t look back much; found it futile. She didn’t cry much—she didn’t think living was much to cry over; she didn’t hold the men in her life, that didn’t treat her well to much accountability, she simply left them and moved on. She was a business woman, a property owner and did quite well in her later years; she also was a dreamer: a woman who knew the world was bigger than she and so life experiences were infinite and she intended on living every one of them. She liked the ride life took her on, from the tail of a comet and certainly gave that reasoning to her son as well as me: To fly across the sky, whether dark or light, the journey was hers for the making. Because of those attributes, my Grandma was quick to forgive and forget. If someone became too burdensome, she wished them well and hung up her hiking shoes. She wanted to be part of a world that understood the power of its spin, and she wanted to be the one with the heart to keep it moving.
I could go on forever about my dear Grandmother—she made a pip seem to be more like a wet mop. She knew how to get down in the dirt and toil; she knew how to dress, as if she had just stepped out from a band box. The girl was a survivor, and when she survived any storm, she knew it was time to start livin’ again. She was every man’s friend; every girl’s confidant—she didn’t sidle up to strangers much, so friendship was the choice she made.
This poem isn’t all about my Grandma, but it certainly reflects her strengths; her endurance; and her prayer for the people she still had to greet…
She had her story; much like you do; I do and the whole world does.
At five, her sister left her;
Then, her Father turned away;
Her Mother grew much colder,
As she held her tight that day.
She told her of life’s horrors,
At best, a bittersweet;
And the withering of dreams to come–
Leaving ashes at her feet.
At twelve she lost her pony, Gus;
A best friend up ‘til then.
That pony kept her hopes and dreams,
Dying with him, in the glen.
She thought of what her Mother said,
Without any thought or care:
And she looked up to see ashes,
From that fire of despair.
At twenty, she found love again
A man which held her fast:
A kind and gentle being,
Giving love she knew would last;
He was her one salvation;
Bringing hope back in her life–
And on her day to marry,
She wasn’t meant to be a wife.
At the altar he fell from his grace;
Pulling buttons from her gown.
And through the churches window,
Were ashes blowing through the town:
From fire blazing in her heart;
Burning love out in its flash–
And it came without a warning,
Tuning dreams back into ash.
At fifty, she would say good-bye,
To all she thought was left.
Her Mother dying on the vine,
Still: She never was bereft.
She felt within, a certain ease;
To see her resting in a death,
And as she got down on her knees…
Ash to ash, came ‘neath her breath.
At eighty, she had to come to find,
Fires waning in the night.
Her joys, all but a snapshot
Melting way to flick’ring light;
Her sorrows bore so deeply,
She couldn’t come to speak,
The whispers heard from Mother, past,
And the fruits of what they’d wreaked.
‘Twas in the autumn winds that year,
A window caught her gaze:
Chilling life-long fires;
Prophetic in her days:
And with her hand o’er her heart,
She exhaled her last breath–
As her ashes blew across the lands
Knelling out her death.
I recall the day she sat with me,
Telling stories from her life:
Her days built from the building blocks,
Struck from the joys and strife.
But what seemed to impress me,
Were the simple words she’d bare;
Of what she learned along the way…
While asking me to share:
“Let winds blow-strong-like bellows;
Exciting fire in your soul;
Let them burn and rebirth
With the searing from their coal.
Let them blow the dreams inside you
Up, and from their sacred cache;
Catching every dream on fire,
Before returning them to ash.”
Her Story
Words by Robin Clark
© 2014 All Rights Reserved
Image: Only Ashes by Elipa