Another Short Story to Share by Margo Hoornstra

It's my turn at the Roses of Prose again, and I brought another story to share. This one is also based on a true incident. Isn't it great when life presents us with so many story ideas?

Dolls For Generations

Six year old Kayla held two cloth dolls, a boy and a girl, in her outstretched arms.

“But, Momma. Why can’t we take the dolls home with us?”

“Because you have enough toys at our house. These need to stay at Grandma’s.”

Vera watched the exchange between her daughter and granddaughter. If she had her way, Kayla would go home with whatever it was she wanted. Even Grampa, for a day or two, if that would make her happy. But, before she’d become a grandmother, with its license to spoil and let discipline slide, she’d been a parent. She remembered those demands and the limits they imposed. So she said nothing.

“They need to go home with me,” her granddaughter persisted. Vera could hear the tears of frustration in Kayla’s voice, then watched them brim over in her eyes.

“They’re all dirty. Look.” Her daughter reached out to gingerly touch a grimy sleeve, then brushed her hands swiftly together to cleanse them.

“But, I want them to.” Kayla stiffened her knees as if that physical act would help her get her way. “Why not?”

“Because I said so,” Vera heard her daughter counter at last. She recognized the line used by many parents to end an argument with a child.

The dolls in question had been a Christmas gift—from Vera’s mother to the twins—many  years before. Her youngest daughter had actually thrown them in the trash one day when she decided to purge her bedroom, and herself, of all things juvenile. Vera couldn’t stand the thought of their being discarded. She’d rescued them then set them in a corner of the basement to be forgotten. That was where Kayla had found them—toward the end of a sleepover visit when boredom had begun to set in and she’d gone off looking for new adventures.

“Grandma.”

Vera steeled herself. She would be expected to respond. It was now up to her to find a solution for her granddaughter while allowing her daughter to save face.

“Yes,” she said as if Kayla had just asked for something as easy to provide as a cookie.

“Is Momma right? Do the dolls have to stay here?”

Vera looked at her granddaughter’s expectant face, then at the ‘please help me here’ expression on her daughter’s. “Yes, they do, Sweetheart,” she said at last. “Because, your mother is right. The dolls are a little dirty.” She looked at her daughter. “And, Grandma needs to clean them up.”

She knew she was providing only a stop gap measure; a temporary fix to the situation. Still, she was relieved when Kayla accepted her answer without argument. For now, that was enough.

The next day, Vera inspected the dolls with a critical eye. She had forgotten how important dolls had been to her at one time long ago, then she realized, they still were. As a child she had spent many satisfying days with her inanimate friends. She’d dressed them warmly for walks outside and tended to their every imagined need.

She laid these dolls on the counter by the sink, then went to work with soap, water and a wash cloth. It was like bathing a baby without the squirming. After they were dry, she’d mend the minor rips and snags she’d discovered.

A few days later, she bent to that task. It was important that the thread blended with the material so the stitches didn’t show. She could almost see her own mother, expertly matching thread to cloth. Vera pulled a length of thread from a carefully selected spool. Her stitches were small and neat, just as her grandmother had taught her. ‘Keep the stitches even.’ Gram would say. ‘Not too long. The shorter the better. Long stitches are for basting. You, Vera girl, are sewing.’

She worked slowly and lovingly until the dolls were completely restored. Then, she decided new clothes were in order.

Her smile erupted into an outright laugh as she drove into the yard later the next afternoon. Her trip to town had been successful on many fronts. The hardware had the part Ben wanted for the tractor, in stock and on sale. But, best of all, the toy store had yielded more than she’d hoped. It had been a long time since she’d been doll clothes shopping. She’d forgotten how much fun it could be—going through all the colors, the styles, the accessories. She’d settled on a yellow dress for the girl doll, smocked across the front in orange and pink thread. The boy doll wound up with jeans—appropriate for a boy, she thought—and an orange top festively embroidered with a palm tree on the front. His outfit came complete with a hat. She quickly unloaded the car, anxious to get to her dolls. Dressing each one with love and care, she took her time to straighten their collars and adjust them both just so.

She set them on the bed in the spare room, then stood back to admire her work. She couldn’t wait for Kayla to see what she’d done.

She’d recaptured and made cherished memories. And, she’d done it for all of them—her grandmother, her mother, her daughter, her granddaughter, and herself.

 

 

 

*****

 

Hope you enjoyed my latest offering. Happy Summer, Everyone.

 

My days to blog here at the 11th and 23rd. For more about me and to see some of the other stories I have, please visit my WEBSITE

They Found A Way: A Granddaughter Cherished, A Grandmother Remembered by Margo Hoornstra

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead

where there is no path and leave a trail. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

While contemplating those words, I thought of an incident in my own life that brings its true meaning home for me.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

 

“Ride the merry-go-round with us, Grandma!”

“Can we please go see the baby animals? Can we pet them?”

It was late summer and the county fair was in full swing. The warm air vibrated with all the bustling activity. The sing-song beat of the midway. Spinning amusement rides bringing squeals of delight. The sharp scent of sausages sizzling along-side peppers and onions mingled with the luscious aroma of just spun cotton candy.

My brother and I, with spouses and two children each, had joined our parents for the annual excursion. As usual, my mother led the way to all the fun with eager grandchildren trailing close behind.

“Come on, Grandma! Hurry!”

“Look! There’s the fun house!”

Watching them—anxiously awaiting an upcoming turn on the kiddy coaster, tentatively petting the velvety soft nose of a gentle lamb or sharing some sweet cotton candy—it was hard to decide who was having more fun.

From day one, my mother had totally embraced her position as Grandma. Though the role came at her fast, with four grandchildren born in quick succession, she promptly became a vibrant and important part of their lives.

Each day spent with Grandma was an adventure, and her grandchildren would grab every chance that came their way to do just that. It didn’t matter where these journeys took them. The zoo to see the animals then ride a real live pony.  Or to a local amusement park to check out the kid sized ferris wheel. Or even to a neighborhood playground to laugh on the teeter totter or climb the monkey bars. All were part of the joy of precious time spent with Grandma. In summer, she would fix picnic lunches for them to share on her backyard patio. Even a simple trip to the grocery store or beauty shop became memorable when Grandma was involved.

But, life inevitably changes. When two more grandchildren came along, some years later, things in all of our lives were very different. Time always takes its toll and, by then, breast cancer had taken its own cruel toll on Grandma’s energy and the very quality of her life.

Carrie was my mother’s last grandchild, born more than a decade after the first. I sometimes wondered if there would be enough room for her in Grandma’s heart. It broke my own heart that my daughter had missed out on so much of her Grandmother’s life. She couldn’t possibly have the same closeness, the same connection with Grandma that the older grandchildren had enjoyed. Sadly, I resigned myself to this truth. Still, I mourned the loss of what could never be.

Then, during a simple conversation, I learned how wrong my thinking was and had a weight lifted off my heart in the process.

Shortly after that wonderful mother and grandmother passed away; I decided to give one of her two prized cameo necklaces to my niece—the oldest granddaughter, the other to my oldest daughter. First, though, I wanted to check with Carrie, to make sure that she wouldn’t feel slighted or left out.

“Why would I care?” Her reply was short, to the point. “If I don’t even know what it is.”

Her answer saddened me and a variety of quick responses came to my mind.  Because you should care about the things that belonged to your grandmother. If remembering her is murky for you, please, at least try to honor her memory. You just need to care.

“Do you remember your Grandma?” I managed the casual question instead, then prepared myself for her answer.

“I remember she was my favorite grandparent.” Another short reply. Matter of fact.

This response puzzled me, too. Her other grandparents were still alive and she saw them often. “Favorite?”

“She played with me. When no other adults did.”

“Played with you?”

That made no sense. The two of them ‘playing’ together was something I had never witnessed. My mother was so sick, weakened by medical treatments, for much of Carrie’s life. She hadn’t been able to take her youngest grandchild to the places she had taken the others. Day long trips to the zoo or even short walks to the playground were out of the question. Grandma rarely got outside at all anymore. She would even get winded simply making her way around the house.

Still, I had to know. “Played with you how?”

“She’d eat the block pies I made for her.” The answer came with all the certainty her limited memory provided. “I would make pretend cakes and pies out of my building blocks. And Grandma would pretend to eat them.” As memories swirled, she smiled. “She always said they were delicious.”

And, with those words from someone so young, I suddenly came to realize something very special.         

Happy memories aren’t necessarily made up of fun filled trips and activities. They can just as easily arise from the most basic interactions of everyday lives, be created by simple, one on one, relationships. Not just elaborate events.

While I had concentrated on what could never be, Carrie and her Grandma had concentrated on what could. They had found a special place where they were able to come together. Even with the limitations that life had imposed, they had connected on a level that was uniquely their own.

In the process, they had created a memory. A precious and personal memory of a grandmother that now lived within the granddaughter. The granddaughter who had been born in the waning years of her grandmother’s life. One I worried would be left out, and the other I feared would be forgotten.

As it turned out, the granddaughter was remembered and cherished by a grandmother she remembered and cherished in return.

 

My days to blog here at Roses of Prose are the 11th and 23rd. For more about me and the stories I love to share, please visit my WEBSITE

 

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