If there’s anyone I tried to hide from when I was little, it was my grandma.
I remember being about 5 years old and absolutely terrified of her. Her electric blue hair and even brighter blue eyes would send a shiver down my spine… or, maybe it was because she once chased me around the back yard with a yardstick. Regardless, I looked forward to her coming, but was usually hesitant. When she did come, she was sometimes stricter than my mother — a difficult feat for many.
I remember her trying to teach my sister and I how to cook. She would nag and nag about every mistake we made. From our flat, sticky ‘yonkies’ to the chunky pasta sauce, she seemed to have a criticism for everything.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized she criticized us out of love. And, because of her tough love, I now know how to make ~*~the~*~ perfect Italian pasta sauce AND how to make the fluffiest, most perfect gnocchi.
She was hard on us because that was how she was raised.
My grandmother was born in 1926; She lived through 16 different Presidents, the Great Depression and the first man on the moon. She was once a little girl, growing up in upstate New York. She became a realtor, a hair stylist, a wife. She then was lovingly referred to as “Aunt Alice” by her town. She raised my aunt and my uncles and my mother.
Think about how many titles each of our grandmothers have had. Starting as daughters and turning into friends, aunts, and sisters. Then becoming wives and mothers. Becoming teachers or managers or hair stylists. Becoming grandmothers and great-grandmothers. Being our rocks, our best friends, and being the women who teach you how to cook.
It’s the stories they pass down that teach us who and where we really come from. My grandmother’s story is a part of me. She is a part of me.
The thing about grandmas is that, love them or hate them, they raised the woman who raised you. They raised that woman who will help you raise your own. And that’s the beauty of it. We learn from their mistakes, their hardship, their joys and sufferings. Their story becomes a piece of us. That piece of us, that history, helps us navigate the waters of our own lives.
Though my grandmother was a foreboding woman, she was the best. She was the best simply because she was mine. She was, and always will be, my gram.
My grandmother had many titles throughout her life. She was a daughter and a sister, then an aunt. She became a bride and soon a mother. She became a grandmother and great-grandma. She was a friend, an advice giver, and a member of the PTA, but on November 23rd, 2017, she gained a new title. She became our angel.
“It’s not good bye, just so long.” -Alice D. Valerio.
May you rest in peace, grammama.