My grandmother was a down to earth woman. She traded places with her brother when it came to chores. She would head out to plow the field with her father while her brother took her place cleaning in the house.
She taught me how to oil the furnace, mow the lawn, trim hedges and make cinnamon buns. I often wonder who ended up with her trusty oil can. I hope they appreciate how important it was to her. It kept the wheels turning. It soothed the aging parts of the machines that endlessly served her. She knew the value of her appliances having grown up in the age of hauling water and burning wood for heat and cooking. So, she always did her due diligence maintaining her luxuries.....her furnace....her lawnmower....her old wooden wagon with metal wheels. Her tools were simple, a hammer, a screwdriver, a hatchet, a wrench and her oil can.
Similarly her dressing table held a jar of Noxema, a powder puff, a bar of soap, a rouge, a lipstick and a perfume. She had some gray hair, many wrinkles and some stray facial hairs. Her face expressed her mood. It lifted and broadened when she laughed and it contracted and drooped when she was sad. You knew where you stood with my grandmother. You could read her face. You could see the joy when she looked at you. You knew without being told how much she loved you.
She was perfect as far as I can remember. And when I look in the mirror and see that same stray hair on my face, I smile. I see my grandmother. I feel the love.
Today I find myself confused as I watch the older women on the tube talk about tragedy and tell jokes all the while their faces remaining expressionless. I hear their voices, but I just don't "feel" their message!!!
And, I wonder what effect this is having on our young girls???
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