Alice

I never met my paternal grandmother. I grew up down the street from her last home. It stood like a ghost on the streets of my childhood. At 46 years old, I still get together with her surviving children, yet I know almost nothing of her.

A few years ago I asked my cousin Joanie, now in her sixties, if she would tell me about our grandmother.

“My grandmother?” she replied.

Joanie looked astonished, almost startled. Joanie and I had never been in the same room with our grandmother. She had died before I was born. It has been over forty-six years since Joanie had mourned the loss of her grandmother, and now, here was this stranger saying, “No Joanie, our grandmother.” I never met any of my grandparents. I have never been anyone’s grandchild, yet I claim her for my own, depending on strangers who share my genetic connection to tell of their human relationships, just memories really, so I can drink in their nourishment.

Joanie’s answer was unsatisfying. The happy feelings, the glow of satisfaction, and the love all came through in Joanie’s response. I learned something of my grandmother. Joanie had loved her. Forty-five years later, the wonderful feelings born of that relationship were still vibrant, but she could not articulate who my grandmother was.

I cannot fault her for this. I find myself surrounded by people who love me, yet barely know me. They, too, would be unable to tell someone who I am, what I dream of, what irks me, or how I invented my jambalaya.

Maybe my blog will help.