So, the story goes... When I graduated from BYU and got a job in the real world and eventually moved to Salt Lake, I came to the conclusion that it would be a good thing for me to go visit my grandma every week or two. My logical mind determined that I should make dinner at her place because we both had to eat, right? Thus, Grandma became my guinea pig of sorts each Tuesday evening. She was a good sport about it, even when she had to eat meals she probably would have rather skipped.
The routine went like this: I'd race home from work, change clothes, grab the recipe, run to the store to grab the ingredients, and go to Grandma's. I'd cook while she watched the news... declaring how much she disliked President Bush, or how she liked the new Jazz Jerseys. When it was time to eat, she turned the tv off... every time. Then commenced the sacred time when we'd sit at her dining table in the chairs that were straight out of the 70's -- with their cream and orange, gold, and green tones. After a prayer, we'd eat and talk... at least until it was time to clean up and call my sister (because my grandma, a retired phone operator, got free long distance... very cool in 2002).
As we sat at that table, my grandma told me stories... Fascinating, non-fiction stories from her life, like the one about Bud, who she nearly eloped with when she was around 20 years old, and who later became her boyfriend at the age of 85. Or the one about when she shook hands with President Kennedy and how much she liked him, as opposed to the other presidents she met, like (I think) Nixon or Carter (who she "didn't care much for"). She told me about how her brother set fire to the family house when she was a young child, and it completely burned down. And how she still met monthly with the group of friends who formed when they were 13 years old and called themselves the "Sewing Club". She shared how a group of friends and their husbands formed a bet that became the catalyst for my aunt being conceived and considered one of the "bet babies". And she told me a little about my grandpa, who died when my mom was just one year old. So many stories. I loved it. Learning her values, hearing her perspectives and memories. The thing she valued most in life was her relationships with friends and family, and that table, or our moments there anyway, brought my relationship with my grandma to a deeper level.
She gave me that table. When she was no longer in good enough health to be at a place big enough to have a kitchen. She gave it to me because of the time we spent together at that table. I've had it in my house since I moved in seven years ago. She passed away four years ago. But I still had the table.
Until today... I gave that table away. I gave it to a friend's family because I got a new table and chairs... contemporary ones that are "more my style." It sounds so callous now: Throw out an object with such sentimental value for something with NO similar value, just because I like it better. But I have been wanting to do this for awhile. And have taken years warming up to the idea. And while I do love the new table, I did get unexpectedly emotional, misty-eyed and even choked up as I watched that old, memory-filled table go out the door.
Then I went to the Midvale City Cemetery and put flowers on my grandma's grave. The table was just the symbol, anyway. She's still with me. I love her.
1 comment:
i always thought how neat it was that you did that with your grandma. she was an awesome lady, but you were awesome for taking time out of your busy life to pay attention to her.
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