Dear Lyla,
It has long been my policy that the word family is fairly broad term. It can be used to describe the people that you are related to; happy accidents of fate that result in shared DNA. Family can also denote those you chose to embrace and care for regardless of blood bonds. Lucky are the families that are diverse and numerous in their membership. Your Grandma Jo would say that ever since I was little I brought home strays; dogs, ducks, turtles, chipmunks and people. She would joke that I never met anyone that I didn’t like or see a problem that I felt I couldn’t fix. While there may be some truth to that, I learned my compassion for others from my parents. I can scarcely remember a holiday where there was not seated at the family table a neighbor or acquaintance that had no family to claim them; and so they became part of our family. I learned to “collect” people from your Bumpa; he could find the unique and special qualities in almost everyone he met, conversation flowed easily from his lips. Bumpa especially liked to chat with those from an older generation; he loved their stories and was eager to soak up their knowledge and wisdom. One winter he was doing renovation on a nursing home in the area and met an elderly woman who had been blind for years. Apparently one day she called out to him to “come and sit a spell”; she offered the invitation because liked the sound of his voice. Never one to shun a compliment, Bumpa began to spend his lunches with this elderly sage; her name was Granny Bailey. On the weekends Aunt Patti and I would frequently help Bumpa at construction work sites cleaning up debris or painting. It was during one of these mandatory work details that I met Granny Bailey. She knew who I was without being introduced; she knew by my cadence and incessant magpie-like talking that I must be Bumpa’s daughter. Granny Bailey summoned me to her room to sit and “chew the fat”; she wanted to know all about my friends, the music programs at school, my family and any subject you would expect your grandma to want to be kept abreast. In hindsight, I suspect that Granny didn’t have any family to speak of and she adopted us as her own. Long after the renovation was done we continued to visit Granny Bailey. Bumpa tried to coax her into coming to our house for holidays but she did not want to leave the familiarity of the nursing home and so we went to her. In high school I read the daily news announcements for a local radio station; Granny tuned in every day to hear what her adopted kin would have to tell the community about the comings and goings of the town. The details of Granny’s face are muted in my memory but the feel of her warm, frail hands clutching mine as we would talk is still fresh in my mind. Granny Bailey was someone that would hear all of my troubles without judgment or sanction; at times during my turbulent teens she served as a port in the storm. When I could drive I would regularly visit Granny. I am not sure if Bumpa or Grandma Jo knew about our extended visits; I did not apprise them of my outings to see Granny because time with her was a private and special just between us. Granny Bailey has long since gone to heaven little one, but I miss her. What I wouldn’t give for just one more visit to tell Granny how special she was and how lucky we were to call her family.
Letters To Lyla 