I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES: CAROLYN
J. Grant Swank, Jr.
Carolyn was my mother’s mother.
She came to live with us when I was but a child. In fact, I don’t recall exactly when life was without Carolyn.
She made the best raisin-filled cookies. I mean the best. They were plump and the raisins were juicy. There was no skimping when Grandma made cookies. The whole house smelled of newly baked surprises when Grandma set her hands and heart to it.
I remember her white hair piled high atop her head. I don’t recall Grandma with anything but white hair — lots of it.
And her housedresses. Well, Grandma only had housedresses as far as I could tell. She wasn’t one for "making herself up." There was no cosmetic drawer in Grandma’s bedroom. She was a very tidy, clean woman; but as for rouge and all that sort of thing, Grandma didn’t "do." She was plain.
Grandma wore a hearing aid. That bothered other people a lot because it squealed. It made loud sounds in the most inopportune places and times, especially when I had friends over for a visit. Or when we were entertaining company for dinner. Squeal. Squeal. Squeal. That burst-forth took over the air and our ears so that everyone looked at one another as if some grand discourtesy had hit.
Well, I figured it wasn’t Grandma’s fault that her hearing aid squealed. After all, that’s what went with hearing contraptions and old people. They squealed. As for the phrase "state of the art" when it came to hearing aids, there was no such phrase. Nor was there any such hearing aid. So I said, "Let’s live with Grandma’s hearing aid just the way it is. After all, when she remembers to wear it, we don’t have to scream our lungs out."
Grandma sat in her rocking chair a lot. That chair was in the corner of the dining room near two large floor-to-ceiling windows. She rocked and rocked and rocked. I often wondered what she thought about when sitting there with no book, no magazine. I don’t recall her reading much. She did like to rock, however.
Now that I’m getting close to Grandma’s age, I can see how a person could sit in a rocker for a long, long time and just look out at the sky. In fact, when I have half a chance now I do that. But when somebody comes along, I usually get up to appear industrious about something.
But when I’m at my Nova Scotian home in the village, I sit on the porch swing, taking in that stunning sunset, looking out at the moving clouds and birds and cows for only-God-knows-how-long. So I can now understand how Grandma could rock a lot and just "look out there somewhere."
One fault that Grandma had was her tongue. She gossiped a lot.
There weren’t that many people to talk to for she didn’t go out. Like I mean that she wasn’t playing bridge or bowling or cruising around the Mediterranean. That sort of life just didn’t happen. But there were neighbors. And so she’d gossip to them — about us.
That didn’t set well with my mother and father. They found out how Grandma made up some really outrageous lies. And we were Christian folk. We went to church, had family devotions, sang hymns with friends around the living room piano and that kind of life. So what Grandma told our neighbors was just a bad set of tongue-and-teeth located right inside her mean mouth.
It got so bad that my mother suffered a nervous collapse. Then it was called "having a nervous breakdown."
I can still see my mother lying in her bed, treated by the doctor. It was that bad. One day I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the linoleum in the upstairs hallway. Then I’d look up at my mother’s face. It was sad. Of course, at that young age I had no idea what she was suffering. But it was when I became an adult that mother explained to me the stress that Grandma put our household under. It must have been terrible.
Finally, at one point, my parents had Grandma go to an "old folks’ home" to stay. It was in the same town as where we lived; but they simply could not have her ruin our home any more. So they had her change living quarters. I recall visiting her. She’d cry and want to come back to us. But my parents had put up with too much of her wily tongue for Carolyn to return.
However, one day my parents changed their minds. Grandma was back home — but this time with stipulations. I think she got the message, but not quite.
It took a stroke really to get the message to her heart. And with that stroke, Grandma landed in her own bed — night and day. The one side of her body did not look healthy and it showed especially in her face. I felt sorry for Grandma, no matter what tongue she had.
It was then, when having a stroke, that her soul was changed. At least that’s the way my parents would put it. Grandma got "saved."
Well, whatever it was, Grandma was a completely different creature than pre-stroke. After that, for a year she lived to be the sweetest Grandma a boy could have. I loved her so much. She seemed like Jesus. She was very nice and friendly and kind.
It was exactly a year after her stroke that Jesus took her home to be with Him. Now as I look back, that’s the year that I remember most about Grandma Carolyn. That was my smiling, endearing, understanding Grandma whom I had hoped for all those years before the stroke.
"It was a miracle," my mother would say when we’d sit around to talk about the change in Grandma. And I truly believe it was just that.
Carolyn was my mother’s mother.
She came to live with us when I was but a child. In fact, I don’t recall exactly when life was without Carolyn.
She made the best raisin-filled cookies. I mean the best. They were plump and the raisins were juicy. There was no skimping when Grandma made cookies. The whole house smelled of newly baked surprises when Grandma set her hands and heart to it.
I remember her white hair piled high atop her head. I don’t recall Grandma with anything but white hair — lots of it.
And her housedresses. Well, Grandma only had housedresses as far as I could tell. She wasn’t one for "making herself up." There was no cosmetic drawer in Grandma’s bedroom. She was a very tidy, clean woman; but as for rouge and all that sort of thing, Grandma didn’t "do." She was plain.
Grandma wore a hearing aid. That bothered other people a lot because it squealed. It made loud sounds in the most inopportune places and times, especially when I had friends over for a visit. Or when we were entertaining company for dinner. Squeal. Squeal. Squeal. That burst-forth took over the air and our ears so that everyone looked at one another as if some grand discourtesy had hit.
Well, I figured it wasn’t Grandma’s fault that her hearing aid squealed. After all, that’s what went with hearing contraptions and old people. They squealed. As for the phrase "state of the art" when it came to hearing aids, there was no such phrase. Nor was there any such hearing aid. So I said, "Let’s live with Grandma’s hearing aid just the way it is. After all, when she remembers to wear it, we don’t have to scream our lungs out."
Grandma sat in her rocking chair a lot. That chair was in the corner of the dining room near two large floor-to-ceiling windows. She rocked and rocked and rocked. I often wondered what she thought about when sitting there with no book, no magazine. I don’t recall her reading much. She did like to rock, however.
Now that I’m getting close to Grandma’s age, I can see how a person could sit in a rocker for a long, long time and just look out at the sky. In fact, when I have half a chance now I do that. But when somebody comes along, I usually get up to appear industrious about something.
But when I’m at my Nova Scotian home in the village, I sit on the porch swing, taking in that stunning sunset, looking out at the moving clouds and birds and cows for only-God-knows-how-long. So I can now understand how Grandma could rock a lot and just "look out there somewhere."
One fault that Grandma had was her tongue. She gossiped a lot.
There weren’t that many people to talk to for she didn’t go out. Like I mean that she wasn’t playing bridge or bowling or cruising around the Mediterranean. That sort of life just didn’t happen. But there were neighbors. And so she’d gossip to them — about us.
That didn’t set well with my mother and father. They found out how Grandma made up some really outrageous lies. And we were Christian folk. We went to church, had family devotions, sang hymns with friends around the living room piano and that kind of life. So what Grandma told our neighbors was just a bad set of tongue-and-teeth located right inside her mean mouth.
It got so bad that my mother suffered a nervous collapse. Then it was called "having a nervous breakdown."
I can still see my mother lying in her bed, treated by the doctor. It was that bad. One day I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the linoleum in the upstairs hallway. Then I’d look up at my mother’s face. It was sad. Of course, at that young age I had no idea what she was suffering. But it was when I became an adult that mother explained to me the stress that Grandma put our household under. It must have been terrible.
Finally, at one point, my parents had Grandma go to an "old folks’ home" to stay. It was in the same town as where we lived; but they simply could not have her ruin our home any more. So they had her change living quarters. I recall visiting her. She’d cry and want to come back to us. But my parents had put up with too much of her wily tongue for Carolyn to return.
However, one day my parents changed their minds. Grandma was back home — but this time with stipulations. I think she got the message, but not quite.
It took a stroke really to get the message to her heart. And with that stroke, Grandma landed in her own bed — night and day. The one side of her body did not look healthy and it showed especially in her face. I felt sorry for Grandma, no matter what tongue she had.
It was then, when having a stroke, that her soul was changed. At least that’s the way my parents would put it. Grandma got "saved."
Well, whatever it was, Grandma was a completely different creature than pre-stroke. After that, for a year she lived to be the sweetest Grandma a boy could have. I loved her so much. She seemed like Jesus. She was very nice and friendly and kind.
It was exactly a year after her stroke that Jesus took her home to be with Him. Now as I look back, that’s the year that I remember most about Grandma Carolyn. That was my smiling, endearing, understanding Grandma whom I had hoped for all those years before the stroke.
"It was a miracle," my mother would say when we’d sit around to talk about the change in Grandma. And I truly believe it was just that.
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