96.

May 19th, 1918.

When I was in fourth or fifth grade, each student in my class was given a homework assignment for our history class.  We were each supposed to interview a grandparent or other older relative, write up a report on our findings, and share them with the class.  My grandmother lived in Illinois at the time; none of my grandparents lived nearby when I was growing up, so one night we arranged a phone call where I could interview her for the class project over the phone.  My Dad made the initial call for me, said hello to his mother, and then passed me the phone, giving me free reign to conduct my interview.  I sat on the old bar stool in our kitchen in New Jersey, yellow phone receiver in hand, asking my Grandma question after question, making note of her answers on my worksheet.  If I remember correctly, some of the more generic questions were assigned to everyone in the class:  Where were you born?  Where did you grow up?  How many children did you have?

There were other questions too, ones that we, as the interviewer had been allowed to write ourselves. Our interview may have been more than twenty years ago but I remember clear as a bell asking my Grandmother what they did for electricity once it got dark outside (gas lamps) and whether or not she was ever afraid that Indians might attack their house since they lived in the Midwest.  (She grew up in Kansas.)

Grandma stifled a laugh when she heard that last question about the Indians and answered me as seriously as she could on the other end of that long distance call.  "Now, Kelli.  You know I haven't been alive for that long, don't you?"

She went on to patiently explain what her childhood days were like - going to school, living and helping around the home, being the oldest of several siblings.  I listened, took notes, and turned in my assignment later that week in school, satisfied that I had answered every question appropriately and thoroughly.

I got an A.

It is only as I've gotten older myself, that I've stopped to appreciate the life my Grandmother has led, have had more questions for her, wanted to hear more about her experiences and her adventures.

Her life.

My grandmother has always been an optimistic person; in the thirty-four years that I've known her I have never heard her not come up with some sort of positive outlook, even when faced with dire circumstances.  It is a trait I have long admired, one I hope to have inherited myself, even in some small way.  A few years ago, I overheard her talking to one of my cousins at another cousin's wedding about her attitude for making it through the hard times.  "You have to focus on the positive.  Find the silver lining.  And in the end, you'll find you don't remember the bad times as clearly.  They will fade.  The good times, the good memories are what you need to hold onto.  That's what keeps you going."

__________

Last week I finished one of the best novels I can remember reading, the kind of book you fall in love with from the get-go and are so very sad to place back on a shelf once you've read the last page.  At one point in the story, the main character, Kate, is reflecting back on something her deceased father once said.  I liked the passage so much I made note of it in my collection of quotes with the intent on re-reading it on days when I might be feeling blue or a little out of sorts.

My father was never much one for whining.  In the nineteen years I knew him, he hardly spoke of his turn in the Russian army or of making ends meet with my mother, or of the day that she walked out on us.  He certainly didn't complain about his health as it failed.

But one night near the end, as I was sitting at this bedside trying to entertain him with an anecdote about some nincompoop with whom I worked, out of the blue he shared a reflection which seemed such a non sequitor that I attributed it to delrium.  Whatever set backs he had faced in his life, he said, however daunting or dispiriting the unfolding of events, he always knew that he would make it through, as long as when he woke in the morning he was looking forward to his first cup of coffee.  Only decades later would I realize that he had been giving me a piece of advice.

Uncompromising purpose and the search for eternal truth have an unquestionable sex appeal for the young and high-minded; but when a person loses the ability to take pleasure in the mundane - in the cigarette on the stoop or the gingersnap in the bath - she has probably put herself in unnecessary danger.  What my father was trying to tell me, as he neared the conclusion of his own course, was that this risk should not be treated lightly.  One must be prepared to fight for one's simple pleasures and to defend them against elegance and erudition and all manner of glamorous enticements.

In retrospect, my cup of coffee has been the works of Charles Dickens.  Admittedly, there's something a little annoying about all those plucky underprivileged kids and the aptly named agents of villainy.  But I've come to realize that however blue my circumstances, if after finishing a chapter of a Dickens novel I feel a miss-my-stop-on-the-train sort of compulsion to read on, then everything is probably going to be just fine."

- Amor Towles Rules of Civilty - 

_________

I remember talking to my Grandma on the phone one Saturday morning years ago, when I was in the tumultuous midst of moving back to Boston from New York City, adjusting to another new job, wondering if I'd made the right decision regarding any of the recent decisions I'd had to make.  

"You will be fine, sweet Kelli.  I just know it.  The sun is shining here and the birds are chirping away and you are so loved."

My Grandmother lives with my Aunt in Pennsylvania now.  She is sharp as a tack, often beating me in our daily Words with Friends battle.  When we speak on the phone or message one another on email or Words with Friends, she is often telling me about a recent book she has read that she recommends or swapping opinions about the latest drama unfolding on Downton Abbey.  Sometimes I wonder if she doesn't get frustrated, not being as mobile or as independent as she used to be, if she longs for the days of her youth.  

And yet, I know that she has found her proverbial cup of coffee, her Dickens novel, as the protagonist mentioned above had.  For my dear, beloved Grandmother rises every morning to enjoy her own cup of coffee by the bay window in her kitchen.  She looks out into the yard and the woods behind their house, watching the birds; nothing which flowers have recently come into bloom.  And she is happy.  Content.     

Might we all be so wise.  So brave.

May 19, 1918.

My Grandmother turned 96 today.  She was surrounded by family near and wide, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, gathered round either in person or on the telephone wishing her a Happy Birthday, sending their love.  She had flowers delivered and balloons hung.  A cake baked and a special birthday dinner cooked just for her.

 __________

Last week, when I sat down to order the roses I wanted delivered for her birthday, I thought about what I wanted the enclosed card to say when she opened her flowers.  Of course, there are a million and one things to say to a woman as special and dear to me as my Grandmother is and it is rather unfortunate that cards that accompany flowers come with a character limit.  I thought about my note for some time, on and off throughout the day before I ordered her roses.  How does one sum up 96 well lived years, I wondered. 

Until I realized there was a single statement that kept coming back to; one I think of whenever I think of my Grandma.

I am proud.

So very, very proud to know this woman.  To call her my Grandmother.  To have been her Granddaughter for the past 34 years.

Happy Birthday, Grandma.  You make 96 look pretty darn fabulous.