Even when she was well into her eighties, my Grandma Williams remained a beautiful woman. Long, thick hair, once the color of spun gold, had turned a silken ivory. Her blue eyes were still the cornflower hue of an Appalachian summer sky. And in spite of more than half a lifetime working a hardscrabble farm, her fair-complected skin was only lightly wrinkled; even when she took me on her lap to tell me another story of the old days in the eastern-Kentucky mountains—of John Swift and his lost silver mine, or Jenny Wiley's capture by the Indians and her subsequent escape—you could see barely a faint tracery of fine lines.
I loved my Grandma. It's also true I saw her through a child's adoring eyes. But she didn't pass away until I was in my teens, so my memories aren't merely fondly colored. And I expect she's the reason I've never judged beauty by the criteria of youth and perfection. Neither in people nor objects. A thing doesn't have to be brand new and flawless to be lovely or valuable.
I thought of Grandma while photographing a few of the flowers in the yard yesterday. The pair of blooms above, and the single lily below are both flowers past their prime—aging, a little wilted along their edges…but still comely and elegant. Time has not sapped their grace, but simply added character. Can any of us ask for more?
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8 comments:
OH GRIZZ - your memories, wisdom and shared gifts and talent are true blessings. I ally with every word, hallelujah
Love Gail
peace....
stop by my blog - and see.......
Scribe--what a touching tribute to your grandmother and the beauty of nature. An apt analogy.
Enjoyed reading a heap of your posts. Great way to postpone the vacuuming. I still admire your writing and thoughts and am very glad you exist somewhere in cyberspace.
I like this new format of yours but would be sad if your old posts were to vanish into blog-heaven.
My poor old prof is in a nursing home now that is like a nightmare from Kafka but the staff are kindly people.
Meanwhile, I am learning to be a human again, although a lonelier one.
Cheers . . . Arija
Gail…
More and more I just write what strikes me, not knowing whether it will connect with anyone else. I'm glad you liked the post. Thank you for your nice words.
(P.S. Sorry to be slow replying…)
KGMom…
What I wouldn't give to be able to talk again to Grandma and Grandpa. They were both born in the 1870s, and lived a way of life in a place where times were little changed since our people followed Boone down the Blue Ridge, picked their spot in the wilderness, and felled that first chestnut tree to build their log cabin. In fact, Grandma and Grandpa lived in a hewn log cabin the first years of their marriage.
Oh, the questions I could ask…the tales they could tell….
Arija…
Life, with all its joys and pleasures, occurs in the swift and sometimes roily waters of time's ever-flowing stream…and to embark upon the journey with an open heart is to invariably learn the true depth and meaning of bittersweet. Take comfort your dear Prof resides in an eddy of kindness.
I'm glad you're reading some of the old posts and finding enjoyment. I'm not going to take them down, so no worries there—though as I redo Riverdaze's design and appearance, earlier photos and such will not be sized or placed correctly, which I may make the effort to fix, albeit slowly on a few-per-day basis.
Those pinkish-purplish lilies in your top picture? I have a ton of them in the garden center in huge pots beginning to fade because nobody wants them.
Truth be told, I am not a Lily person and soon I will clearance them, and they will go to good homes to fulfill their destinies.
As for me, until they leave I will walk past them and remember Grandma Williams and how beautiful she was. I will remember Jenny Wiley and the park named for her that I visited as a child.
I'll just keep making those connections.
Robin…
Making connections…isn't that what life comes down to in so many ways? Connections made, connections lost, connections wished and hoped and maybe even prayed for—and connections we didn't know we missed or just didn't want. Too afraid? Too foolish? Too, too, too this or that—too whatever. Connections to songs and people, places, things—connections to history, ours and others. I connect those lilies to my Grandma Williams, you connect them to my story, and to mention of Jenny Wiley Park, which I've also been to and which I'll now connect back to you and to all those overlooked lilies in your stock, which I would take—allow them to find their destiny in my yard—even though I'm not exactly lily person, either…but I would anyway because I could connect them back to you and to Grandma and to the photo and how worried about Moon I was when I made the shot.
Connections are the threads from which we weave the tapestry of our life.
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