I didn't know my great-grandmother very well.
She was my paternal grandfather's mother. She wasn't a warm, fuzzy person. I don't recall ever spending time alone with her, and never really got to know her well.
I do remember her obsessions with cleanliness. Plastic coverings on the furniture, plastic runners on the floor. Everything spotless. It's actually how my house might be if I relented for one moment beating back the type A villain that so wants to rear its ugly head in me.
She loved fashion, and she could whip up masterful creations on her sewing machine. She loved rhinestones, sparkle and bling of all sorts.
Maybe we are more alike than I realized.
But there is that distance that characterizes her in my mind. She was rather disinterested in the grand kids, yet I remember my precious grandmother stirring furiously a pot on the stove after an encounter with her. I didn't understand that then, but now I can slightly imagine what she endured in a difficult relationship with her mother in law.
Now that I'm older I wonder what in my great-grandmother's past led her to be that way - I so hope she knew Christ, and hopefully my recollections are from that child-like mind that didn't fully understand the adult world I saw at a distance before me. Maybe it's not all as I remembered.
The last memory I have of her is her clutching me to her chest on her deathbed just hours before she died. She whispered furiously in my ear, "You know I love you?"
Those words encouraged forgiveness in my heart, and regret replaced whatever irritating thoughts that I had about her previously.
I should have spent time with her. Gotten to know her. Heard her story.
And I think we were alike in more ways than I thought.
My beloved great-grandfather called her "Baby," and we all did the same.
She was simply "Baby."
In the years before my aunt Ann tragically died, Ann would comment on something I was wearing and say, "That is so Baby." She would grin at me, trying to convince me that this female legacy I inherited was not a completely unfortunate one.
I came to appreciate the comparisons to this enigma of a woman I was quick to judge, perhaps too harshly.
When she died, my grandfather was gracious to share with me sweet sentimental mementos from their home.
In some of the precious mementos was a picture that my great-grandmother had drawn.
I loved it, and as I studied it, my aunt turned the picture over to show me a small photograph that was taped to the back of the frame.
I looked at my aunt quizzically, and I'll never forget the sparkle in her eyes.
The writing in the bottom right hand corner of the picture is this:
Ann Harbin
Loulie Compton Seminary
May 22, 1923
Thanks to the joy of Google, I was able to see this school, which was billed as the best preparatory school in the South. I even found a year book on Amazon, and had they not wanted over $300 for it, I probably would have bought it.
It was here that Baby had penned this picture as a 17 year old girl. The odd thing was that she said at the time that it was her husband.
I don't know what led her to draw this, or declare that this was her husband, but she did. Knowing what I do of her, she did it with great panache and conviction.
I do wish I knew what led her to do this, though. I hate that this part of the story is missing.
And what was taped to the back of the framed sketch?
Why this picture, of course. Dated 1926.
Three years after her sketch.
What makes me teary eyed about this picture is not just that she was right about what her husband would look like, but seeing here the apparent love my great-grandfather had for her.
It's true. This picture illustrates the love he lavished on her for all of their lives together. He was a gentle giant - we called him "Big Daddy" and he was! Towered nearly 6 feet 5 inches but the kindest most gentle man. I adored him.
But nevermind all of that.
She was right! Look at him!
I just love it. How did she know?
Maybe she had had a vision or something...
Regardless of that, Baby loved to create. That I got from her definitively. Her passion to create was not limited by talent or ability.
I can relate there also.
This hangs in my dining room, and I do ponder nearly everyday her choice to create blue trees. Never did my aunt pass this painting that she wouldn't pause, with her hands on her hips, and say, "Only Baby would insist that trees should be blue..."
So it hangs there-a tribute to a family that loved me in spite of all of my flaws and a ringing endorsement to my odd creative side.
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| Ann and Baby |
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| Ann, my sweet aunt. |
