The Relationship Chronicles: My Grandmother Presh, Part 1

Posted on December 14, 2009 with No Comments

Ed. Note: The story below was written several months ago by one of my best friends, Ashley. She contributed this beautiful piece about her grandmother (who goes by the nickname “Presh”) as part of The Relationship Chronicles, and it’s been sitting in my inbox ever since, waiting for my attention. Life got in the way, as you can tell from my sparse posting of late, and I haven’t gotten around to posting it.

Ashley’s grandmother passed away a week ago today, and as a tribute to this amazing woman who I have met myself on several occasions, I wanted to finally post her story.

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“Wow! I can’t believe you are so happy and fun today, I do hope I can hang around a while,” I said sarcastically to my grandmother who had just begun to seem old. My own mother looked at me and asked how I could get away with being so rude to my grandmother. After all, aren’t you supposed to respect your elders?

My first memory of my grandmother is at the age of six. It’s actually a memory of my grandfather, but she was there too. We were watching blue jays out the window and eating peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Everyone felt safe, and I remember her looking at me with nothing but love in her eyes. Sadly, this is one of my last memories of my grandfather, but his passing enabled my close relationship with my grandmother, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

During my childhood, she was the typical grandmother – or at least that’s the way that I remember it. I remember hoping that she’d bring me crayons. I remember her cooking, making sandwiches, and taking off around the world. She was so independent and wasn’t going to let the fact that Grandad couldn’t share the adventure stop her from realizing their dream of seeing the world. She’d take off to China, Iran, Turkey, Croatia or some other faraway place, coming back with horrible pictures (it never was her forte), jewelry, t-shirts, recipes, memories and ideas. Ideas about what went on outside our sheltered lives, and she’d share them with enthusiasm. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was shaping me to think outside the box, dream big and enjoy life. Most importantly, she moved to live near me during my childhood and this shaped our relationship forever.

The teen years are never easy years. Mine were plagued by parental divorce, the stigma of being a band geek, interest in a sport that was beyond our means, and the overwhelming feeling that I just didn’t fit in, either at school or at home. My places of refuge were the barn, the band room and grandma’s apartment. When I had to give up the barn and the band room was off limits, her apartment became my solace. We developed a routine of weekly dinners and she’d talk to me about what was going on with her, with me and in the rest of the world. We’d eat sandwiches, and I never felt judged. It became so safe that even when she was off gallivanting around the world, I’d go to her apartment, sit in her red chair and watching TV until I had to leave. She was strong, still independent, and when she wasn’t with me, she was volunteering, painting, learning and sharing.

My adult relationship with her has been the strongest, has taken the biggest beating and has truly opened my eyes to the world. It’s also the one that has seen our roles reversed and the one that sometimes just breaks my heart. It’s one that I cherish and resent, but would never give up.

To be continued…