My mother was 88 years old when she died at the Teresian House in Albany. Often, I would bring my children to visit their grandmother at her final place of residence. But I don't want my children to remember her only from her days as a nursing home resident. I remind them of the gleam in Grandma Jean's eyes when she kissed them, hugged them, held them and of her humorous inquiry when I would wait in the hallway and the kids would enter her room on their own, "Did you drive here yourself to see me?" Not likely for children 8 and 10 years old.
I try to isolate the image of my mother as an elderly woman living at the Washington Avenue senior facility. (If only my children knew her when...) I resurrect for my children stories of my mother when I was their age. I want them to know my mom, not only as their grandmother who lived at the Teresian House, but also my mom who was always there for me and still is in spirit, full of love and compassion, and as the giver of memories. After all, their father is because of what my mother, their grandmother, was.
I tell my children about my father's first attempt to teach their grandmother how to drive a car. My mother was behind the wheel of the old station wagon on the long and winding private driveway of Vincentian Elementary School. There were no distractions, no other cars on the road. Still, my mother managed to crash into the large metal waste bin at the end of the roadway behind what was known as the Glass School. In an effort to defend my mother's driving skills, I tell my children that the trash bin just wanted to meet their grandmother.
The memories I cherish and share create a symbolic and perpetual presence of their grandmother for my children. They are inundated with stories of Little Gregory and his mother. Their favorite tale seems to be about the day I hid my lunchtime bowl of soup under the kitchen sink. My friend was waiting outside and we were anxious to bike over to National Little League park for an afternoon of ball. But, before I was excused from the table, my mother found the soup.
Mom's lecture was stern and demonstrative. I can't recall my mother ever being as angry as she was at my attempt to deceive her. With the soup bowl in one hand, and the spoon in the other, Grandma Jean scolded me, shaking the spoon to accent her admonishment. But the spoon slipped out of her hand, found its way to my mouth, and chipped a front tooth I never had fixed. My children love this story, not so much hearing of their grandmother's fury, but the end result visual of their father behaving badly.
I feared the day when my mother's precious look of love was replaced by a distant stare. I could not prepare myself for that reality. Even now, as I write this, that image tears me up. But, for a moment, I will embrace a reprieve in knowing that memories can be eternal and that my children realize the love of their grandmother, my mother, is a gift and a blessing forever.
Happy Mother's Day, mom.
Gregg Weinlein is a freelance writer living in East Greenbush. His email address is greggw97@aol.com.
