The other night my grandmother climbed up a ladder to
retrieve some canned berries. Then she
suggested to my wife that they should use candied ginger and canned mushrooms
to make breakfast. My wife shrugged,
accepted the offer of a More menthol cigarette, and got to work. I
haven’t dreamed about my grandmother in quite a while. I think of her less often while awake
too. The truth is that I have to think
pretty hard to even conjure up her voice in my head. But she is still there, lurking in the
recesses of my mind and waiting to pop out on random Saturday mornings as I get
that much anticipated extra hour of sleep because of the kindness of my wife
who neither cans berries nor smokes More menthol cigarettes but does get up
early with the kids every Saturday. My
grandmother has been dead for more than fourteen years, but she and those
canned mushrooms she used to give me are still there. My kids know about both already. But they will never meet her. Neither will my wife. Despite dreams of the old woman sliding down
a ladder like a fireman, my Grandmother is gone. Some little scraps of memory, augmented by
various artifacts, will persevere. But
she is gone. That is what happens to all
of us. We leave varying amounts of
artifacts behind, but over time we mostly fade away. Even a Presidential museum does not preserve
a person … just their things, their accomplishments, and images, both still and
moving. They, the Presidents, are not still moving … which is what I think
about whenever folks talk about American individualism and decry most attempts
to put value on the collective rather than its individual parts. All
that glorious individuality mostly disappears … and what doesn’t lives on
because of the collective and its memory.
What is still moving are the people who look at the pictures, watch the
videos, and visit the museums … the rest of us.
Us. Not me or you. Us. It’s
wisdom my grandmother reminded me of early Saturday morning … wisdom that we
might all do well to keep in mind.
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