My memories of Grandmommy start pretty early. We would periodically pack the family up in the Volkswagen Microbus, with its nary robust 1800cc motor, and embark on a seemingly endless journey for Santa Rosa. Jessica and I would spend so much time on our roller skates that we would only see Grandmommy around lunch and dinner. Occasionally, Grand-mommy would take us to one of her neighbors to collect fresh gar-den produce. The way to this lady’s house was out Grandmommy’s backyard, and through the lady’s back fence. There was a hidden entrance in the fence, at least to us youngsters, and I remember feeling so privileged to go there. This woman had so much food growing in her garden, it was like Eden to me. Jessica and I would pick the raspberries that would grow through the fence of this lady’s garden too. We might only get three or four, but the slim pickings never deterred us.
As we got a little bit older, maybe around the time we upgraded the VW to a Volvo, it seems Grandmommy was either always in the hospital or recovering from surgery. Her knees and hips were putting up a fight, so Grandmommy got rid of them and had some new ones installed. These visits may have coincided with the others aforementioned, but they’re etched into my memory as separate occasions. I don’t think I had ever visited anyone in the hospital before Grandmommy, and it left me with the impression that she was a very fragile person. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. She did, after all, marry Granddaddy!
We all aged some more. It is interesting how we sometimes become so overwhelmed with our lives, that when we do find time for pause, we realize that YEARS have passed. Suddenly, I am no longer a child or teenager. I am an adult, helping Mom paint the house and polish the floors for Grandmommy and Granddaddy’s new house in Monterey. Grandmommy and Granddaddy relocated to be closer, and we were happy to have them closer. I would try to come for Sunday dinners as often as I could, and I probably could have come more frequently than I did. During dinner, I rediscovered Grandmommy through stories she would share when she was afforded the opportunity to talk (Dad and Granddaddy tend to dominate discussion. Us women folk sometimes have to jockey for the floor.) There were stories she would share about her brother Bob, about her kids, about Granddaddy and his friends, about her childhood. I was able to capture one of these stories with my MP3 recorder while I was working on an oral history project for a California History class last spring. In it, Grandmommy describes how her mother would always keep a spare plate and cup, in case someone in need was staying with them. The drill was, as the plate was passed around the table, everyone would contribute a spoonful of their meal in order to fill the plate for the stranger. I never saw a dry eye on her face when she recalled those events. Even when there are limited resources, there is always something to give to those less fortunate.
— Brenna Wheelis
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