A Quilt of Love

Part two.

  I explored the grounds until I was eventually drawn to the mystical pull of the front parlour. I could not resist the mysteries of this room, despite the haunting feelings of a room not used. The abstract pictures danced on the walls as sunlight splintered through the stained glass window.

  Great Grandmother Kester's old pump organ dominated the area like a peacock proudly displaying his fan of feathers for all the world to envy.

  On the other wall was a bench that housed an old doll and my reliable foe. He was a stuffed monkey with a hole in his mouth to accommodate the banana in his right hand or the protruding thumb on his left hand.  Although a resemblance to
" Curious George " of book fame, he had an eerie look of age in his quizzical eyes.

" Wendy, supper time ". Grandma must have sensed my need to be rescued from this curious monkey.
  " Coming, Grandma ". And off I raced, relieved to leave this room and my old foe.

When Grandma would visit our house, there was the inevitable quarrel of who would get to sleep in my brother's trundle bed with her. To lie next to her, safe in her cloak of love, was to be one with God and all the powers of the universe.

  We huddled under the tent to escape the drizzle of the rain. My mother was seated in the row of chairs lined in front of the casket. Who was the old woman clutching her hand ?. There was no smile on this stranger's face. There was no colour in her face and her cheeks were sunken, in  a grave look of age. There was no twinkle in her eyes. She looked very old, whoever she was.

  The full force of reality struck me with the same devastation of the atomic bomb falling on Hiroshima.

  Is this possible ?. I had memorized the twinkle of her blue eyes, her ever present smile, and the security of her comforting arms surrounding me. I had memorized every wrinkle of her beautiful weathered face. I saw none of that now.

  It hit me with a tremendous force. My Grandmother is old !. Why had I not known this before ?. I knew she was 94, but that was just a number. I always assuned she was immortal and everlasting.
   Throughout the funeral service for my aunt, I considered the pain she must be feeling. To bury your child must be very sad.

  I'm not sure what was harder that day. Was it the death of a woman I loved or the shattered delusion of my Grandmother's mortality. I had to accept that she was old and someday might not be there for me.

  We returned to her house after the funeral. Although she was still sad, the smile, the twinkle and the colour had returned. I had caught a glimpse into a part of her that I never knew existed. She had always made me feel so special that I never considered her as anything other than Grandma. But... she was.

  She was born Effie Kaster in 1897. A picture reveals her as a beautiful young blonde with a tiny waist. She went to school, had dreams of her own, and married her one and only love. She lived through Indians, the turn of the century, two world wars, and the great depression. She has nurtured seven children, numerous grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great - great grand children. She has lived what most of us only experienced in history books. Through all of this she has remained a loving, caring person, steadfast in her belief in God, and the good of others.

  After considering all that she is and has done, I realised that she is indeed immortal. If the time comes that I can't reach out and hug her, I will be able to close my eyes and feel the smothering flood of love and memories envelop me in her quilt of love, woven from the varid, treasured threads of her life.

                          This dedication was written by Wendy Caraher.....

Web page created 16th August 2000