Grandmother Kate

Reading has always brought me peace, and my grandmother reveled in reading with me.

My Grandmother Kate was my first and greatest fan. She believed I could and would accomplish "anything I put my mind to," and told me this often. She was also one of the women in my life who gave me the gift of finding and exploring stories. Grandmother would sit in those hideously-beautiful, low-slung, bright orange library chairs every week at the Gadsden Public Library, flipping through magazines while I wandered both the Children's department and Adult department stacks, finding new treasures by Beverly Cleary, Louisa May Alcott, Catherine Marshall, Judy Blume, Grace Livingston Hill, L.M. Montgomery and so many more.

Grandmother would also let me take volumes from her own shelves and lie on my stomach in the floor, flipping through vintage leather-bound copies of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Lord Byron, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and so on. 

As I breathed in the smell of that old paper and glue, leather and ink,  I breathed in peace. 

When I was a young adult, we'd sit, my head on her shoulder, in her glider and look out from the mountain over Gadsden. We'd sit there under the trees, watching the birds and squirrels, admiring the daffodils or turning leaves, and she'd remind me that she loved me, and I could do anything I put my mind to--whether that was finishing my master's degree, caring for an infant, or leaving an abusive situation. I'll never forget her telling me one particularly hard day that she worried I would forget how to be calm and relax, and that no matter my story's chapters, it was important to write them myself. 

Grandmother had started college at age 16, never failed to write down and look up a word she didn't recognize, read voraciously, taught piano to pay her bills, always wore her gaudiest jewelry, started a Master's degree in the 60's, ran an animal clinic after her husband died in the 70's, traveled from Alabama to Alaska to see me when I was born, opened an herbal store on Hoke Street in the 80's, ran a restaurant on Nobel Street in Anniston, sold every pyramid scheme product that existed, and never lost her sense of self. She wasn't perfect, but she never met a challenge she wasn't sure she--or those she loved--could overcome. 

Years later, we sat, her head on my shoulder, as I held her hand for the last time on this earth. She'd shared her own story with me, chapter by chapter, through the years--the beautiful parts and the ugly parts. The easy days, and the hard ones. Her story taught me to appreciate the beautiful things in my daily life, to believe the best of myself and others, and to always find something new to "put my mind to." 

She shared her own story with me, while helping me write my own. Without her, I'd have never finished graduate school. Without her, I'd not have had the courage to leave a bad situation. Without her, I wouldn't have the poignant understanding of what it means to wrap up this chapter on earth and entrust our stories to others when we leave. 

Grandmother entrusted parts of her story to me, the same way she did many vintage volumes of poetry and fiction. When I flip through them, I always find at least one slip of paper where she had written down a word to look up later. At the end of her life, she'd write down words she used to know but no longer recognized. And, when she asked me to find a dictionary, she marveled when I'd tell her I had every word she could ever want to look up on my phone. Then, we'd sit side by side in her bed, her shoulder now on mine, and look up word after word: 

Corbel --a projection jutting out from a wall to support a structure above it. 

Reinforcement-- the action or process of reinforcing or strengthening.   

Enjambment-- (in verse) the continuation of a sentence without a pause beyond the end of a line, couplet, or stanza. 

Grandmother Kate was a support and  reinforcement for much of my story. Now, I will have to revel in remembering her stories, and ours together, as I continue on to the next line, the next chapter. 

Ellen

Watching a fern unfurl; admiring the petals of a flower; laughing at birds bickering over a branch; the ice-cold water of the spring sparkling over periwinkles; singing songs together and breaking into parts--Ellen noticed and appreciated the details. 

Her acceptance of the beautifully broken and imperfect was a gift she gave generously. Storm clouds and cobwebs, broken pottery and rusted iron, difficult relationships and patinaed woodwork -- Ellen delighted in the beauty of it all. 

Ellen was a friend, mentor, listener, and encourager through many seasons of my own life, and the lives of many others. She took me in as one of her own: shuttling me to medical appointments and caring for me afterward; including me in Christmas celebrations; drafting me to participate in historical tableaux; crocheting my first baby a beautiful blanket; showing my girls how to play the autoharp and make her wooden puppets dance; laughing hysterically with me over the phone when I'd call to share some silly parenting story; never failing to send handwritten cards and handcrafted ornaments; always listening and paying attention.

During times of uncertainty in my life, Ellen was always certain of the goodness in the world, and she saw that goodness in details that I often overlooked. 

She knew, for example, when I called exhausted with worry over one thing or another, that the seasons would dry out and fade the Resurrection ferns growing on the wide trunks of the trees outside her home--but she was certain they would spring back to life with a little water. She knew that whatever the current challenge was, it would only last for a season. 

On visits, we often sat outside on the porch, listening and watching. We would listen to the creek, the birds, and to one another as we caught up on our lives since our last visit. We'd watch the trees sway while we chatted, the bumble bees lumber their way through the air, and the flowers tremble under insect feet. 

Ellen always had some craft or project to show me, or a treasure she'd found: a new origami pattern, a delicate dried flower she'd forgotten in a book, a beautiful moss-covered rock from her woods, a lovely snail shell, a feather-and-paper littered bird's nest fallen from a tree, a seedling she'd dug up and moved to see if it would take, a piece of chipped pottery found in the dirt, a children's book she thought my babies might enjoy.

Watching Ellen appreciate the world around her and surround herself with the things that brought her joy reminded me to slow down, pay attention to the details, and be intentional when curating my surroundings. Hearing her stories taught me to find the joy in the people and situations around me. 

I saw Ellen as her season was drawing to an end. I knew it would be my last visit. On my drive to see her, I tried to take in the trees, the sky, the creek with the same attention to detail I'd watched her give for the two and a half decades I'd known her. She found beauty in the people and world around her, no matter how worn or unremarkable they might seem or feel. 

Ellen was musically and artistically gifted and accomplished, well-read, well-educated, and well-traveled. But, what I will remember and what I loved most about her was how well she loved me and mine and all the people she called her own. Knowing Ellen taught me that friendship transcends age, that flaws are beautiful, and that the most precious gift we can give is the gift of our attention.

Before I left, she remarked: "Life is hard." A moment later, she continued: "But, beautiful."

And, it is. 

One of Ellen's adventures included her season as a teacher in a one-room school house in the mountains of Appalachia. You can read about her adventures in  Around the Edge of the World and Up Petercave Creek by Ellen Brasher Harris. 

https://www.amazon.com/Around-Edge-World-Petercave-Creek-ebook/dp/B07WT7K3TX/ref=sr_1_fkmr3_1?crid=2UTOYDGARRQH6&keywords=ellen+brasher+harris+author&qid=1686630376&sprefix=ellen+brasher+harris+author%2Caps%2C114&sr=8-1-fkmr3