About a month ago (my how time flies), my grandma passed away. She took her health very seriously and we all used to say, “If anyone is going to live forever, it will be Grandma Helen.” So, on the day she died, we were surprised. Outsiders may think it wouldn’t be a shock because she was 96 years old, just a few years shy of joining the exclusive century club. It was a shock to us, though. I think we really did believe she could live forever.
On the day of her funeral, we flipped through photo albums my parents had found while cleaning out her house. None of us had ever seen the photos before. There were photos of my thought-to-be-conservative grandma surrounded by groups of men, a mischievous smile on her face. She was 1 of only 6 women in her business school. I’m sure she was very popular. As a single woman, she’d moved from her family home in Minnesota to Washington D.C. By herself. I have to think this was pretty progressive for a woman in the 1940s. There are pictures of her in bikinis. There are pictures of her in a man’s pantsuit, standing proud. There are pictures of her with my would-be grandpa in a photo booth, acting silly.
In short, I realized I didn’t know my grandma like I thought I did.
My grandma was a character. We’ve always guessed that she was on the more autistic end of the spectrum. We wondered if she’d had Asperger Syndrome. She had difficulty connecting, socially. She had never thought to show us all her photos because she probably didn’t realize we’d be interested. She didn’t really understand what interested people.
In a way, the photos we found told a story that she couldn’t tell.
And then, there was this: My mom found a folder full of stories my grandma had written. Stories! Fiction stories! I’d always known my grandma had been a “writer,” in that she was known to jot down the most mundane of details (seriously, we found a notepad she’d taken on a trip that recorded the time the plane took off and landed, as well as the names of her taxi drivers). I had no idea she was a writer though, let alone a fiction writer. I guess I had to get my love of words and stories from somewhere. My parents have worked in the healthcare field all their lives. I’ve never known of any relatives who wrote/write for fun–until now.
I just read through the stories in the folder. First, there’s “Marsha.” Here’s the plot: Marsha is lonely in NYC, working as a secretary while her fiance, Gene, is in the service. While at work, she attracts the attention of 2 wanna-be suitors–Tad and Ben. Tad tells her that Ben is married so she will lose interest in him. This works. Meanwhile, Gene comes home for a visit and Marsha starts to think he is “too reserved” for her. She goes to an office party with Tad, after which they kiss “vigorously” (!). She sends back her ring to Gene and considers marrying Tad, despite the conflict with their religious differences (she is Protestant, he is Catholic–the horror!). Then she finds out that Tad knocked up his landlady’s daughter and decides she cannot marry him; he must focus on his unborn child. She learns that Tad lied about Ben being married. The story ends with her having dinner with Ben. Quite the romantic drama, Grams!
Then there’s “Cyclone,” an action-adventure tale starring Jim Holmes, who goes into his devastated city to help dig bodies out of rubble. In “Autumn Escapades,” Farmer Green attempts to track down the guys who stole his chickens. He comes upon a car that he thinks contains the thieves, but realizes it’s occupied by Dr. White “having fun” with his nurse. Dr. White says he’ll do anything if Farmer Green will keep the secret. Farmer Green thinks about blackmailing him for the amount of money he lost from the stolen chickens, but then decides that’s the wrong thing to do (oh, Grandma, such morals). In an untitled story, Hank and Jenny are arguing about the location of their new home when they realize their 2-year-old daughter, Cindy, has gone wandering away. They find her on a precarious ledge and Hank must lower himself over the cliff to rescue her. The conclusion: They agree to never argue again because they have Cindy as their priority. Lastly, there’s “The Fatherless Boy,” a really uplifting tale (note: sarcasm) about a 14-year-old named Hal who’s had it rough: parents divorced, older brother died in car accident, stepfather is a drunk. In a strange chain of events, he gets caught stealing candy with his friend, discovers pornographic magazines via his stepdad (“there are topless girls, and bottomless ones, too”), then gets hit by a car while riding his bike. During his stint in the hospital, he concludes that everything is his fault. Hal needs therapy.
The fact that she made up these stories, that she had such a vivid imagination, is surprising and heartwarming. After all, this is the woman who saw “Men in Black” with us in the theater, then said she didn’t like it because it “wasn’t at all plausible.” Somewhere in there was a person who fantasized and understood the power of make believe. That’s all writing is, isn’t it? The power of make believe?
[Side note: Her spelling and grammar is also nearly perfect. I’m tickled.]
I wish I had the chance to ask her more about these stories, about her obvious interest in writing. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t have been able to articulate that interest. No matter, now I know where the writer in me originated.
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Do you have writers in your family? Or do you have family members who have passed on interests/talents/skills that influenced your writing?