Grand inspiration

 

She once called her infant grandson Chuck. (His name is Paul). She will verbally scatter names around the way a lottery machine madly jostles plastic balls. And gender matters not. She will call Robert Katie or Michael Nicole. Occasionally, she will address them by throwing in one of her sister's names. Or she will just give up in exasperation and say, "Whatever your name is."

But however she addresses the kids, my mother's grandchildren love her to death. They will rub her shoulders, fluff her hair and hold her hand. They will open up like clams in the face of her persistent questioning: Who are you talking with on that phone? Can't you get up and help your mother with the dishes? (Boy, if you were my kids, you'd be cleaning the whole house.) Is that video you're taking of me? Shut that damn thing off!

It's a wonderful thing to watch mom with the kids, especially if I recall our times with my own grandmother. My siblings and I hung on every word, especially if she was dispensing Hershey Kisses, rolling them out on the table then flicking each one toward us with thumb and middle finger, the way you might send an annoying insect on its way without killing it

Likewise, my mother's grandchildren will sit around her and listen to stories. One of them interviewed  her for a school project, knowing her life story is consequential. Indeed it is. That story, should someone write it, would be vast, like a sprawling novel from Thomas Wolfe. It would have sweep, grandeur and laughter and sorrow, almost in equal parts. 

That story would go deeper than those conversations with the grandchildren, but I suspect they would eat it up, at some point, when they are mature enough to understand how one life can impact generations. Kids, whatever your name is, listen when you can.