The trouble with grandmothers began when I came across a postcard published in 1965 that featured a picture of my grandmother standing in front of her restaurant. So much about that postcard intrigued me, even beyond my initial reaction, which was that in 1965 she was about the same age that I was as I stood there holding it. In the photograph she already looks like my grandmother, whereas as recently as just a few days ago, some new acquaintances were surprised to learn that I am older than dirt.
The Postcard
I wondered why the postcard existed in the first place. Surely she didn’t have an advertising budget and even if she did, she wasn’t the type to pose front and center to advertise anything. One of the few things I did know about my grandmother is that she was even more guarded about her privacy and less inclined to want to be at the center of anything than I am. In fact, even as I type this sentence, I imagine some lightning-fast cosmic slap on the wrist coming across the dinner table for a breach of etiquette and discretion. My grandmother did not suffer fools.
So many ideas came to mind about the way the building has changed and yet remained the same in an area that has changed but also has remained the same and the parallels to the ways my grandmother’s life and mine are different and yet are the same.
Sportsman’s Restaurant with Mom’s Home Cooking. My grandmother was Mom.
Ledo’s Pizza. My grandmother was not Ledo. Whoa-oh-oh-whoa-ohhhh.
That post never came about.
Because of you.
Well, not so much you as . . .you.
Yes, you.
Those of you who, if you’ve even read this far at all, might be wondering, “When’s she going to get to the punch line?”
The fact is there was one, in the caption of that second photograph. I removed it out of respect for my grandmother. I’m leaving the caption because it was just as I tried to remove it that my keyboard stopped working and I had to replace the batteries for the first time in however many years I’ve owned it. I choose to take that as her nod to Boz Scaggs rather than as a cosmic slap on the wrist. She did have a whimsical side.
Back to you.
The timing wasn’t right for a serious, reflective post at the time that the postcard came to me. Either I’d just written something silly and had picked up a number of new followers who might be thinking they’d found another humor blog and would be disappointed . . . or I’d just written something serious and reflective and I thought it best not to ask you to endure too much of that.
I spend a good deal of time thinking about how the audience I’m building shapes the topics I choose, the form that it takes, and the purpose of writing it at all. In fact, it tends to shape the purpose of the blog itself. When I set out to write a blog, I didn’t anticipate any of these things. I just intended to have a place to say things.
So I filed away the postcard and the related musings because it seemed time for something light and funny.
Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo and Abuelita
That seedling draft about my grandmother was still sitting on my desktop when the Washington Post published an article about Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo, an article I might have read with a general passing interest had it not been for a beautiful, if heartbreaking, Richard Shindell song called Abuelita, which means ‘little grandmother’.
Abuelita tells the story of the Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo through the voice of a grandmother talking to the grandchild she has never known.
(photo credit: Silvina Frydlewsky/For The Washington Post)
Rosa Tarlovsky de Roisinblit’s picture puts a face to the story in the song. She is now 92 years old and every day she goes to work, continuing the search for her own daughter, Patricia Julia Roisinblit, and the grandchild she has never known, as well as about 400 still-missing children and grandchildren kidnapped by a military junta supporting a dictatorship in Argentina from 1976 to 1983.
Rosa is Vice President of Abuelas de (Grandmothers of the) Plaza de Mayo, an organization dedicated to searching for those kidnapped sons and daughters and grandchildren.
There was so much in this experience of reading this article about these grandmothers, putting a face to the story that has touched me in song for such a long time, that I wanted to write about. But again, I decided to wait for another day.
Once again the timing wasn’t right for something so deep. You, whoever you are — either for real or in my mind, expect different writing from ”the Hipster” .
I Need Younger Friends
Earlier this summer I came closer to finally having an audience-worthy post about grandmothers. First a friend of mine who is younger than I am became a grandmother. I found this somewhat difficult to comprehend. I still find this difficult to comprehend.
Then a few weeks later I was in a car with several other friends, all hip, cool, totally righteous babes, who were trading updates on . . . their grandchildren. One turned to me, flashed her gorgeous Faith Hill-lookalike smile and said, “Sorry, you’re with the old folks tonight. You’ll have to put up with this grandmother stuff,” to which I replied, “Yeah, I was just thinking I’m going to have to start looking for younger friends” and then we giggled and went about laughing in the face of osteoporosis.
You might have liked that story. It’s more what I imagine you expect from me. Still, it was lacking something.
And then it happened. . .
Deus ex Range Rover: The Queen in the Machine
A grandmother to the rescue. ((PHOTO) Twitter: @selirebekka6 via Christian Post)
You may remember this story from a few weeks ago. Queen Elizabeth II made the headlines when she was spotted driving her Range Rover wearing a hoodie.
What to the world was Her Royal Thugness was to me a grandmother doing what grandmothers do: taking care of her own.
Before there was Topless Kate, there was Bottomless Harry, who learned the hard way that what happens in Vegas does not necessarily stay in Vegas when one is extraordinarily famous, wealthy, and unclothed.
All the world was a-Twitter with news of Prince Harry’s naked bachelorette party romp and then, in what seemed to me to be a fabulously well-timed photo op, the Queen was spotted rollin’ in style.
Suddenly Harry’s youthful indiscretion was old news and the Queen’s fashion statement was the new shiny thing that captivated us.
Maybe it’s because of the women of her generation that I’ve known, most of whom have been dignified and refined ladies, yet tough as nails and full of spunk.
I imagined them in her same position thinking, “Oh dear. How shall we handle THIS mess?” and then taking matters into their own hands. I couldn’t help thinking that when I saw these pictures. It amused me, and I thought if I wrote about it, I could share that amusement.
But I didn’t.
Because of me.
I was glad to have finally come upon the grandmother post that was appropriate for the blog and I probably would have written it as HoodieGate was unfolding if not for real life issues of time or whatever else was going on.
By the time I did start to write it, I saw these other grandmother ideas that I was discarding in favor of the silliness about the Queen (God save her for saving Harry) and I started to think about how many ideas I would write about that are important or at least interesting to me that I don’t write about because they don’t “fit” with the blog’s “purpose.”
Like many others I see writing on this issue, I don’t know what the blog’s “purpose” is. I know what I intended it to be: a place for me to say things.
Somewhere along the line, I wrote something that resonated with the kindness of strangers as “humorous” and I started to pick up followers (this still amazes me and I very sincerely thank you). I started to choose topics and then write in a voice and format that I thought would appeal to that audience and more and more began to discard the other ideas that are equally, if not more so, reflective of who I am and what I think about.
When I realized I was discarding ideas that really ‘coulda been contenders,’ I was a little disappointed in myself for not writing true to who I am. When I step back and look at the blog as a whole, I remember the response of the first person I showed my first post to. It was someone whose opinion mattered to me. He laughed as he read it, but then when he finished, he looked at me and said, “Who would read this stuff?”
I’m so thankful to you, yes you. . . and you. . . and even you, for reading my posts, even if from time to time, I post something that doesn’t resonate with your particular kindness.
I still find myself lacking any particular purpose, but maybe the search for purpose is a purpose unto itself.
I imagine my grandmother reading that line and thinking, “Get yourself out of that chair and get to work.”
The woman did not suffer lazy, introspective fools.
(This post is a follow-up of sorts to an earlier post on using a pre-writing thought process based on FATP in the process of writing for a blog. You can find that post here. )
First, I was singing Erasure’s ‘Ship of Fools” because you said your grandmother didn’t suffer fools. Then, (before your prompt, mind you) I started singing “Lido … one more for the road….” Great minds, HC. Great minds.
This was a great collection of grandmother stories. The song is lovely, too. Although, due to Mother Nature, I’ve become a blubbering idiot. Thanks for that.
“…but maybe the search for purpose is a purpose unto itself.” <—- That.
Thank you, LD. If you ever want to make me cry (and why would you do that?), the words “Soledad was your mother’s name” will do it.
The original Ledo Pizza is near the University of Maryland. I have never been able to pass by one without hearing the Lido Shuffle in my head, but this is true: I have never had a Ledo pizza.
I keep forgetting you are in the DC/MD area. Please go to Hard Times Cafe for me. I’m really craving some of their veggie chili – 3 way.
You’ve been to Hard Times, yes? (Saying ‘no’ will make me cry.)
There was one near where I used to live but — please don’t cry — I haven’t ever been there, either. I don’t get out much.
One is amused, one is very definitely amused…excuse me dear…HARRY!, put that baseball bat down, I told you I’D deal with them!…sorry about that dear, now…where was one…?
I’m not alone in imagining the way it all went down then?
“One of the few things I did know about my grandmother is that she was even more guarded about her privacy and less inclined to want to be at the center of anything than I am. In fact, even as I type this sentence, I imagine some lightning-fast cosmic slap on the wrist coming across the dinner table for a breach of etiquette and discretion. My grandmother did not suffer fools.”
Love this passage, sometimes I can imagine my own grandparents doing precisely this and it is a beautiful image. Thank you for your words
Thank you for reading them and for offering yours. And for Pete’s sake, where are my manners? Welcome to Le Cahier!
I realize this isn’t the point of today’s post, but I’m sorry your friends are becoming grandparents. That’s a tough one.
Well, it’s one of the points. That counts!
P.S. Thanks for your sympathies, you whipper snapper, you.
Hippie: I understand this. On so many levels. I the writerly level: what is our brand? But I think that your true followers will live your writing pic and stick with you through thick and thin. I’ve been at this 3 years now, and I’ve watched my readership change and shift and grow and grow. It always grows when you write from your heart. That’s what makes people want to come back.
Also, who doesn’t live a good grandmother story? Even the crazy grannies are something special. So thank you for sharing. As always.
You are one hip chick, no matter what voice you choose to use.
Thank you to your own hip-chick self.
You know, two of my favorite blogs have a very steady, regular structure: Stuff Southern People Like (man, I wish I had come up with an idea like that) and The Good Greatsby (man, I wish I were that kind of smart-funny). Then there are blogs like yours and Byronic’s (just two that come to mind in this limited box space I’m writing in from work), where there’s that genuine from-the-heart, in-the-moment writing that is always, always good. “How you do that?”
Greatsby is a cyborg. I’m pretty sure he made some kind of deal with the devil. I mean seriously. Who is that consistently awesome? As for the rest of us, we’re just having a good time.
I am truly amazed how you actually managed to get all your “Grandmother Stories” into one blog while really writing about something that haunts us all. “What is my blog really all about?” Well played. Well played.
Ditto what Michelle said. Whatever you feel, you express it well, so people will want to read it. Carry on, Ms. Hippie!
Thank you, Ms. Peg, so very kindly.
Thanks so much. . . I’ve been trying to put them together for the longest time and then I thought the FATP framing would work. Even that didn’t work. Last night I put off everything else and sat there for a couple of hours looking at the screen. Finally I thought, “This is ridiculous. Nobody’s paying me to write this. No one’s really waiting to read it. Why am I sitting here?” and I went to bed. I woke up at 3:30 with exactly what I wanted to say in my head, went to the computer, wrote something entirely different, and there it is. I guess that’s just “my process.” What’s yours?
I like this, but the like button seems so inadequate.
What a great path of words to follow.
Thanks for going down the path.
As a member of the facebook community, I find it shocking to see how many friends my age are grandparents when I myself still don’t feel like an adult – and I think I’ve never started feeling like an adult because I never had children. So I’ll never be a grandmother and I’m okay with that. But I do wonder who’s going to decide when it’s time for me to make the move to assisted living.
Sorry about that. It’s catching really good spam — stuff I might otherwise have allowed through. Unfortunately, it’s catching really good real stuff, too.
So, where were we then?
Oh, P-dog (am I allowed to say her name?) seems to be a rather responsible decision-maker. I’m sure she’ll do the right thing.
Yes, you may use her real name
Actually, I do get “mom” cards from her on my birthday and holidays. But we are both uterus-less so no granddogs for me.
I’ve been listening to a song a friend wrote for some folks celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. It’s a beautiful song, but it’s making me realize I won’t have a 50th wedding anniversary or anyone to play canasta with at The Home. Bummer.
Speaking of younger friends, when I was staying with my mom in their retirement community, we ate dinner at their clubhouse. While Mom was in the restroom, I chatted with the nice man who is the restaurant manager. He said, “So, do you live here?” Talk about a blow to one’s ego. I am a few years away from being of age to life there. Then, I took my dog for a walk while Mom napped. I sat on a bench in the shade and made phones calls to family to update them on Dad’s health. A woman, well into her 80s asked, “Are you ok, dear? Do you need me to call for help?” Geez. One last thing. When dad was at the lowest point, I looked in the mirror and said, “Who the hell is that?”
Bless their hearts. I’m sure that’s more a reflection of their wishful thinking that they were in their 30s just like the new girl.
I think I’m going to have to tell the hairbrush story. Haven’t been over to your place for news. I hope you’re ok. Just now leaving work. Don’t I own a hairbrush?
My last post was last night. I’m okay. The virtual/long-distance support is wonderful. Oh yes . . . I’ve been meaning to ask you. Don’t you own a hairbrush? Come on girl. Your Grandma wants you to brush your hair!
Am I getting spammed?
Maybe — lemme go check….
I think it’s half the fun to read things from other which is so differently to what maybe oneself would write. You never know when something will spark the interest. I am more then often surprised when people react more “responsive” to something I ‘scribbled’ down, and when they don’t.
Just go with your gut and don’t listen to the “Who-would-read-that”ers (No offense to that person whose opinion matters to you).
I’m not a fan of Sting, but I am a fan of David Wilcox, who uses Sting’s analogy of “Message in a Bottle” about his own songs — he writes them and tosses them into the ocean and whoever finds the messages and whenever they find them is more about the ocean than the song, “and that’s ok. The ocean can be trusted.”
Lately, I’ve been faced with the same conundrum — trying to figure out how to make my blog more relevant and reader-friendly. Sometimes, I swear, I’m all over the board with it! But isn’t that the way of life? I mean, I’m not one-dimensional, so why should my blog be that way?! Never fear, I find your posts interesting — whether it’s humorous or educational or just kind of a stream-of-consciousness-thingy. There, don’t you feel better now?! Love ya, kid (and no, I’ll never believe you’re older than dirt, ha!)
Yes, most of us have many sides. For me, that’s what makes it hard to choose. I love to laugh, but, for example, there’s nothing funny about the Abuelas. Nothing. I get nervous about posting a buzz kill.
Wait a minute… this blogging thing is supposed to have a purpose?!
Yikes! This could be my problem!
Do you think the queen would be kind enough to borrow me her hoodie? For hiding purposes?!
Hiding porpoises? What?
You gave us an assortment of stories, so you have to put up with an assortment of responses!
First, you reminded me of a post I wrote three years ago about The Disappeared. I believe I’m going to update and repost. If you don’t know Holly Near and Ronnie Gilbert’s song Hay Una Mujer Desaparecida, well… I’ll just let you listen.
And I missed the Queen in her hoodie! That’s really marvelous. She’s just like one of my favorite birds, the killdeer. They feign injury to draw attention away from their young. It seems to me that’s exactly what she was doing.
Now, as to this blogging business. I’ve been at it for four and a half years. The bet I made with myself was that a blog could serve as a writing platform. My intent was to learn to write, and my only rule was “Write, and let go.” I wrote as well as I could about what interested me, and then moved on to work on the next post. Immediately. If someone showed up to read or comment, that was great. But I didn’t worry about it. (No, that’s not true. I did worry, some. But I didn’t let it set the agenda.)
This has been much on my mind because I very recently – like three days ago – discovered Woody Allen shares my attitude. Look at this marvelous snip from an interview with him:
If you asked me my druthers, I’d much prefer for people to like the film than not to like it. But I’d never do anything to bring about that effect. I want to make the film I want to make, and if they don’t like it—and I know this sounds terrible—it’s too bad. I much prefer that they liked it. When “Midnight in Paris” was so successful, it was delightful. It was great. But if they didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have changed a thing to curry favor, or get them to like it, or do the kind of thing that I anticipate they might like and give them that. That would not interest me.
I found the quotation in the process of writing my last post, which was about Puccini, opera, Woody Allen and photography. Uh – if I’d worried about who would like that combo, it never would have seen the light of day. But I had fun with it, and some people showed up (even some who hate Woody Allen and opera) and all’s well.
All’s well here, too. You just go right on and write whatever piques your interest, and we’ll be right here reading. After all, none of us can write it all – we need each other to go poking about in the strange corners of the world and bring back new treasure!
I agree with Woody Allen, except that he’s Woody Allen, so there’s that.
One piece of it that I omitted due to length is the writer v. blogger issue. I’ve never considered myself a writer. I don’t think I have anything to say that the world needs or wants to hear. I communicate best in written form (which is not to say that it’s always successful communication). These combined make blogging a nice outlet, but only for that very small part of me that has long hair and dangly earrings. There’s a lot more that I choose not to share, but that gets in the way of an authentic voice. Augh. The angst of it all!
Well, you’d better go snoop around. Another of my comments is running loose somewhere.