This story really resonates with me. My paternal grandmother was my best friend, the person who taught me so much about life. But my Mum saw her in a different light, making it hard to comprehend how anyone could perceive the same person so differently. Growing up with these conflicting perspectives was sometimes perplexing and frustrating. However, it also taught me the importance of appreciating different viewpoints and respecting the individuality of relationships. Thank you for sharing Michael!
Thank you for sharing this Michael. I can resonate with the connection I shared with my grandmother as well. The descriptions of Grandma Vivian's home, the forest outside with tall pine-like trees, the recollection of the pool table upstairs, the library filled with thick books, and the forbidden exploration of the books about sex. These are relatable moments and innocence woven into our childhood for many of us and it resonates deep.
Oh my goodness Michael! I really liked this. I'm inspired to follow your lead and write about my grandparents. My paternal grandfather sits on my ancestor shrine. I didn't know him well while he was living but I feel I'm getting to "know" him now through the ancestor practices I've been guided to. He was a stern and intimidating man who did well financially. Much of what I'm unhooking from in my life right now are the ways I've been shaped by the old bootstraps narrative that drove him. While he attained financial success it came at a cost.
This feels so very true. The atmosphere, the memories - tactile and aromatic, (a sense so peculiar that even over decades the memory elicits the smell in your brain). It brings so many things into play that resonates no doubt with readers besides me (who as a grandmother myself flew back to my grandmother’s brownstone in Brooklyn and the smell of a drawer in her kitchen filled with candle stubs and the odds and ends of a house once filled with my uncles and mother as children..
I remember very little about my paternal grandfather. I was 5 or 6 when he died, and all I remember of him alive was a wrinkled mushroom of a man sitting in an armchair sliding towards senility. My maternal granddad was ALMOST the polar opposite - journalist, reporter, columnist, painter, overseas at least ONCE.
This story really resonates with me. My paternal grandmother was my best friend, the person who taught me so much about life. But my Mum saw her in a different light, making it hard to comprehend how anyone could perceive the same person so differently. Growing up with these conflicting perspectives was sometimes perplexing and frustrating. However, it also taught me the importance of appreciating different viewpoints and respecting the individuality of relationships. Thank you for sharing Michael!
Thank you for sharing this Michael. I can resonate with the connection I shared with my grandmother as well. The descriptions of Grandma Vivian's home, the forest outside with tall pine-like trees, the recollection of the pool table upstairs, the library filled with thick books, and the forbidden exploration of the books about sex. These are relatable moments and innocence woven into our childhood for many of us and it resonates deep.
Oh my goodness Michael! I really liked this. I'm inspired to follow your lead and write about my grandparents. My paternal grandfather sits on my ancestor shrine. I didn't know him well while he was living but I feel I'm getting to "know" him now through the ancestor practices I've been guided to. He was a stern and intimidating man who did well financially. Much of what I'm unhooking from in my life right now are the ways I've been shaped by the old bootstraps narrative that drove him. While he attained financial success it came at a cost.
This feels so very true. The atmosphere, the memories - tactile and aromatic, (a sense so peculiar that even over decades the memory elicits the smell in your brain). It brings so many things into play that resonates no doubt with readers besides me (who as a grandmother myself flew back to my grandmother’s brownstone in Brooklyn and the smell of a drawer in her kitchen filled with candle stubs and the odds and ends of a house once filled with my uncles and mother as children..
I remember very little about my paternal grandfather. I was 5 or 6 when he died, and all I remember of him alive was a wrinkled mushroom of a man sitting in an armchair sliding towards senility. My maternal granddad was ALMOST the polar opposite - journalist, reporter, columnist, painter, overseas at least ONCE.