Through the Eyes Of My Grandma

Yes, so tis my birthday at some point this week.

That said, I received a VERY welcome gift over the weekend. Not exactly unexpected, but with a story that I wish to tell. Because that is just what I do.

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My grandpa has been gradually giving me packets that he put together of all manners of papers and articles relating to our family genealogy. It started with my own deep DEEP interest in the subject, although I think it is also in his own interest to pass this stuff onto someone since he is getting older. At any rate, he gives me these neat little folders of photocopied papers almost randomly with one not really relating to or completing the chain started in the previous. I think the idea behind that is that family trees are like puzzles, the pieces took time and hard effort to put together for those who originally attempted to do so, and therefore he is unwilling that I should have everything laid out before me all at once. Which is a concept that I accept and even love.

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So for my birthday my grandpa gave me yet another set of papers to add to my collection. I was thrilled as always! I like to have plenty of time free from little sisters and phone calls to mull over that stuff when I get it, so I waited until late last night to pull it out and start reading. The first page was a letter from my grandpa (even though he had given me the packet in person). It explained a few minor details about the family members I would read of. I read that through quickly and laid it aside, ready to dive into a sea of lovely facts figures and names. After glancing over a copy of a newspaper article featuring my Baptist preacher great-great uncle, I reached a mess of papers stapled together, the last of the batch I was given. I read the first few lines...and found myself incredibly confused. It was a poem. I flipped a few pages, and found that ALL the rest of the documents were copied poems written by my great-great grandmother. I was so very disappointed. My grandpa is a sweetheart, and he knows what I'm set on doing in the long run: compiling FACTS. Cold, hard data. Names, places, and dates. That's what I love. That's mainly what I'm good at. And most importantly: I DESPISE (most) poetry. Write some music to it and I'm a happy girl, but I am unfortunately far too literal for most of that deeper stuff and therefore I avoid it altogether.

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Why on earth would he choose to give me THIS particular set of papers for my birthday out of all the material he has? At first I almost put it back in the folder and went to bed, but then I realized the childishness in that. My grandpa had a purpose for what he did, and he put that stuff together with me in mind. I knew I would read it through word-for-word even if it killed me.

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Each poem was typed up neatly with a simple, "Composed by Mrs. Martha Jane R." at the end. The first few spoke in reminiscence of her children when they were young. As the mother of 11 children and widowed young, I am sure her world revolved around those kids. These pages remember times past and hope for a bright and fulfilling future for those closest to her. The next few move onto more depressing topics. One poem was dedicated to her granddaughter, a cousin of my grandpa's, who she apparently raised for a time. The first lines read a chilling, "Please do not call me Mamma, dear. Your mamma is cold and still." After struggling through reading a few more poems that were not making sense to my blonde mind, I came across the one that finally brought everything into perspective.

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The poem, entitled, "Just Jake" was written in memory of her late husband who died of (from what I can tell) unknown causes at a very young 43. Their oldest child, the son who would go on to become a Baptist pastor, was only 18 at the time. Yet, this poem speaks not a word of bitterness towards God or her husband, or fear of life, or anger at all the many things that had gone "wrong" for her. No, it simply stated a love that was so great that it overcame the obstacles she had been faced with. It referred to her long journey, but with the joy that she was traveling back to her love rather than dwelling on the fact that her journey would be without him.

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It was at this point that I broke down and cried. And suddenly, I knew why my grandpa had given me this to read.

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Many folks have spent the majority of their lives genealogy searching; obsessing over those dates, tearing their hair out when something does not fit, spending hundreds of dollars on genealogical services, living in a sort of addiction to finding out where they came from. I find this all very fascinating. Yet what was I focused on-what are many of the family tree seekers I have known focused on finding? Birth dates, death dates, social security information (does help sometimes), birth certificates, baptism certificates, marriage certificates, death certificates, cemetery headstones, anything that will add to a nice neat and most importantly COMPLETE list of all the facts and figures that only you and perhaps a precious few ancestors after you will find interesting.

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The truth is that you can find a hundred generations of cold hard facts and still not understand who you are-where you came from, yes, in the most literal sense, but still not who you are. You can even obtain a beautiful and complete collection of family pictures dating back to the dinosaurs, and still not get the point. In the end, dates are simply numbers, and old photographs, while interesting, are cold and lifeless.

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What I learned through the eyes, the heart even, of my great-great grandma is a more priceless treasure to me than any stack of facts my grandpa has given me yet. All that other stuff means very little to me now, compared to being able to actually understand the heart of this woman I am related to. Maybe I was able to find a strength and a will in her little poems that I found encouraging to my own life. Maybe I saw a love and a silliness in her that no photograph of that era would ever dare depict. Maybe, just maybe, I will be able to see some of myself mirrored in her a few years down the road. I pray that I do.

Queen of the Cats