The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors by Diana Raab

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                               Finding Grandma’s Journal

    Our most treasured family heirlooms are our sweet memories.
    The past is not dead. It is not even past.
                                                                                     ~ William Faulkner

   Two months before my  forty-third  birthday,  my  mother,
who’d been widowed for more  than  a  decade,   came  for  a
weekend  visit  to  our  home  north  of  Montreal. When  she
visited   from   New  York,   she  always  brought  with  her  a
nostalgic item that had belonged to  my father or one  of  my
grandparents. Because  my   mother  lived  in  the  past,   she
frequently spoke about the way things used to  be.  She   had
difficulty keeping up with the changing  times.  She   refused
to learn how to use a computer, so she was  asked  to   resign
from her job as a medical receptionist in the  hospital where
she’d worked  for  twenty-five years. By  that  time,  she  was
seventy-five years old.
   Mother  was   the   opposite  of  a  hoarder.  With  her  own
sense of discretion,  she  tossed away  anything   that   didn’t
personally  serve  her.  She  usually did  this  without  asking
anybody in the household if they wanted any of  such  items.
For  example,  in  1976, when I moved out of the house to go
to  college, I  was  devastated  when  I  learned  that  Mother
had thrown  away   all  my childhood  journals,  which  were
stored in a big plastic box in my closet.

                                                ***

   Before  dinner   on  the  night  of  my  mother’s   arrival  in
Montreal, without saying anything  or  acknowledging their
presence,  she  peeked  into  the   playroom  off  the  kitchen
where  my  three kids were  playing.  She  had  never   much
liked   children,   nor   did  she  know  how  to  connect  with
them.  I   suppose   that’s  why   she  left   my   care    to   my
grandmother.
   She  came   into  the   kitchen   and  lifted  her  small,  blue
suitcase  onto one  of  the  six  contemporary,  black-leather
chairs at  the  table. She  pulled something out and yelled to
no one in particular, “Here, I brought this for you.”
   I  stood  at   the  counter,  my back  to  her  with my hands
submerged in  a bowl of chopped meat. I suspected she was
speaking to  me, so I turned around  as  she  flung  a  plastic
sheath filled with papers across the glass table.
   “This is your grandmother’s,” she said.
   What she’d  tossed  so  unceremoniously  was   Grandma’s
journal.  It  wasn’t  a  bound   book  or  a notebook  but  fifty
pages of single-spaced, typed pages  laden  with strikeovers,
awkward   syntax,  and   numerous  grammatical   errors.   I
washed  my  hands, walked over  to  the table, and collected
the   pages.   As   I  flipped  through  them,  a sudden  strong
memory overtook me: the  day  my  grandmother taught me
how to  type on  her Remington typewriter when I was eight
years old.  I  wondered if it  had  been  the  same  typewriter
that she’d used to type this journal.
   “Have  a seat on this chair,” Grandma  had said,  pointing
to  her  vanity  chair. “I’m going to teach  you  how  to  type.
This  is a  handy  skill for  a  girl  to  have.  Plus,   you  never
know what kind of stories you’ll want to tell one day.”
   With her  blonde  hair in bouffant style and her bright red
lipstick  framing the space between her two  front teeth, she
stood  behind me, smiling radiantly in the mirror.  She took
my right hand  and positioned  it on the second row of  keys
from the bottom, carefully placing one finger on each letter.
With my left hand, she repeated the same gesture.
   “This  is   the  position  your  fingers  should  be  in.  When
you  become a good  typist,  you  won’t  even have to look at
the  letters  while you’re typing. Okay,  dear,  let’s  see  if  we
can type your name.”

                                                ***

    Suddenly,   after   receiving   her  journal,  I  was  reunited
with her for the first time since she’d died  more than thirty
years  earlier.  It felt both eerie and exciting. Her voice once
again filled the gap of  the loneliness  born out  of  being  an
only  child  and  being  raised  by a mother  with narcissistic
tendencies   who   really  did  not  understand me nor  know
how to bring out the best in me.

                                                 ***

   Over   the   years,  I    have   often   pulled   out   Grandma’s
journal  to reread  it.  My  intention has  been  to  absorb her
sensibilities  and  understand  who   she  was  and   what she
endured.  I  also wanted  to understand her sense of torment
and  what  led  to her  depression  and  subsequent suicide. I
knew that certain psychological traits can  be  genetic. While
we do  have control over  our  lives, genetics is  an important
factor   that   can   determine   whether,   when  facing   life’s
setbacks,  we  feel  grateful  or  doomed.  I    thought   it   was
critical   for   me   to   know    everything   I  could  about  my
grandmother’s   mental   health,   hoping  it  would  help  me
navigate  my  own  journey. Even though her  story  was sad,
reading  it  grounded  me  and brought me closer to her. Her
words empowered me.  They  also  served  as  a  reminder of
my huge sense of loss and abandonment when she died.
   Until  receiving the  journal, I  had  no  idea  that Grandma
was  a  journal keeper  as  I  am. Sometimes  when  we study
and   get    to   know   our   ancestors,   we   make  fascinating
discoveries. Perhaps journaling is in  my  DNA. For  years, it
has been my savior.



Reflections / Writing Prompts

What were some of the challenges that your parents
and/or grandparents faced?

Do you have an artifact or item that reminds you of
an ancestor?

What passions have you carried with you since
childhood?

Did a grandparent have a talent or passion that they
shared with you?

Is there a memorable story that a parent or
grandparent shared about their own childhood?

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