Wrangler Dani

The idea has been percolating in my head for most of today, that I have to write about my family. I have to document some of what I’m feeling and thinking now, before these thoughts blow away in the wind of day-to-day business and the tyranny of the urgent. Even though I know it’s false, I somehow believe that my 87-year-old grandmother will just keep truckin’ the way she always has, an infuriating mix of sharp wit and pessimistic humor, a woman who is smart and powerful and beautiful against all odds and who honors her faith and her family above herself.

Last night was her 87th birthday party, at my aunt and uncle’s house. When this family gets together, the wine flows like water and conversation flies thick and fast. We spare no one in our jokes and we are more than willing to make any person the butt of any hearty laugh. This family is a group of talented story-tellers, a trait they inherited from my grandfather, and of keen observers, a gift from my grandmother.

She sits in the kitchen with the girls as we laugh and talk, as Michelle stirs the Paella and we hear the deeper rumble of the menfolk’s laughter and Uncle Dud’s booming storytelling from the other room. She is easily confused now, one moment she tells me a story about ice skating as a kid in Ohio, the next she seems unsure of who I am.

I feel terrible that I didn’t record her stories when she was more able to remember them, that I don’t have a written record of her incredible life to share with the world. I regret not listening more, not honoring her memories like I should have – now that her reminiscing days are slowly fading away, it seems I’ve let this treasure trove slip through my fingers. Because what are we, if not the strands of those who’ve gone before? At the party, we found a photo of my grandfather from the late 1930’s and it could have easily been my brother, hands in his pockets and cap sitting back on a full head of hair, standing confidently on an Eastern Sierra snowbank. The realization of how much we inherit from those who’ve gone before struck me as I looked at the photograph, my grandfather’s adolescent, piercing gaze penetrating me through sepia tones and long-gone clothing styles.

My grandmother is frail now, but she paved the way for us. She survived polio and even traveled the world despite her physical handicaps, finally marrying a my grandfather in California and bravely saying good-bye to the life she knew in Ohio. She showed us all how to stand up to a societal mores and get a college degree and a high-paying job when such a thing was incredibly rare for a woman. She then graciously made the choice to stay home with her four kids and show all of us what love looks like – so much so that when we, the grandkids, came along, we were raised in her footsteps by our parents, who’d seen good parenting modeled first-hand. She has long been a faithful Catholic and unwavering believer – soldiering on through every trial, every lonely moment since my grandfather passed away, every infirmity.

I feel so honored to have grown up in the tradition of faithfulness, goodness and hard work that my grandparents exemplified. They lived through extraordinary circumstances and created a family that we relish now, one that couples common-sense with good humor and impatience with the echo of my grandfather’s booming laugh. I only hope that I can do them credit, now that I’m old enough to appreciate their legacy. Someday perhaps I’ll write their story, at least for my own sake, so that I don’t cheapen the legacy I have or allow petty differences to get in the way of loving the family God gave me. I hope it’s not too late to record the story of a girl from Ohio and a boy from Huntington Beach who loved us enough to give us an example of how we should live.