that’s what we call her…
my great-grandmother, that is. I like it the way we reverse it. it emphasizes the “great” part. I’m not even sure why we do… but that’s how it’s always been.
she will be 97 years old in June. she is amazing. she lives by herself and is sharp and functioning and funny and adorable. she paints, she gardens, she writes letters, she keeps track of all her posterity.. she’s one of my heroes.
isn’t she wonderful?
and tonight, we got a copy of the book of her life history. I love to read her writing, and I felt like the following excerpt was so beautiful that it had to be shared with the world.
“Memory brings us such elusive, sketchy remembrances. What do I really remember? I remember cold, unheated bedrooms in Idaho winter, lying in the grass in summer, watching the tall, swaying stems and blossoms of thistle and dry dandelions, grown tall and rank, feeling the breeze so soft and the sun so warm on my brown face and arms. I loved the outdoors.
“I remember the spongy, green bumps protruding in such irregular fashion over the swampy pasture at Burton and hearing the haunting, fluty call of the killdeer at evening. I remember the flat, smooth rocks, big enough for rooms on a little hill above the house on the dry farm. We played house up there and made up plays and programs.
“When I was a child, I was a child in every weird and wonderful way, a creature of every interesting and inventive pastime, a writer of stories, a designer of dolls and doll clothes, a painter, a musician and orator, a pioneer, a princess. Whatever I wished to be I was. In that rose colored world of faith and fantasy I could be anybody.”
– Phyllis Clarke Clements