Reconnect with my Grandmother
I spent a lot of my childhood at my maternal Grandmother’s house on Arabella Street in Long Beach. My parents were divorced and the weekends I was to visit my Mother were mostly spent at my Grandmother’s house. I’m unsure as to exactly why but could only guess it was because I wanted to hang out with my young Aunt who still lived there.
My Grandmother is tough as nails. She doesn’t show a lot of emotion but she has a temper. I’m sure she’s endured a lot in her lifetime. Stories and details I don’t know or may ever know.
She was a secretary for many years at Rockwell International in Seal Beach. I’d love to tinker away on the fancy typewriter she kept on an old dressing table in her bedroom. I believe she served cocktails at a local bar most evenings too. She worked two jobs for as long as I can remember back. She drove a black Camaro, taught me to drink the milk out of my cereal bowl, and cooked up something called “Taco Pie” in a black iron skillet. She was born in Michigan on “Black Monday,” the day the stock market crashed in 1929. Last year, she suffered a stroke.
My Grandma and I had a falling out about ten years ago. Over a thank you card, as I understand it to be. Or maybe it’s more, and I just don’t know it.
We’re both stubborn. And we’re probably both a little hurt by the things that have been said over the years.
What makes me sad is that she has a great grand daughter she’s only seen in photos. Many times I’ve thought about reaching out to her in an attempt to repair things but my ego gets the best of me saying things like “she should have contacted you when you were diagnosed with cancer” or “she knows how to reach me too if she wanted to fix things between us.” And thus, I do nothing.
Anyway, all this weighs heavy on my heart. If you were me, what would you do?