My mother’s mother was a formal, formidable aristocrat. She was born in the 1880’s at a time in history when women were not widely educated. She earned a college degree and in the early 1900’s became a librarian. My grandfather, as a young lawyer, fell in love with her at first sight in the library, and then when he was elected to the senate, there was a lifestyle that included Washington DC, white house balls, status and the works. And Gommy was a force.
I never knew my grandfather, but Gommy would visit us once or twice a year and when she did…tension reigned…’remember your manners’…as manners beyond manners…and ‘be pleasant’.
W-e-l-l. 1967-ish….spring break from boarding school….a welcome respite from institution life…freedom…long floaty dresses, loose hair and bare feet. What did I represent to Gommy? I can only imagine from here now. BUT in a moment, while I dashed around the corner in our upstairs and bumped into her while she was coming out of her room, she grabbed my face in her hands, she looked fiercely into my eyes, and she said “Remember your heritage.”
Obviously I have never forgotten this. And I chuckle. Of all of her grand and great grand offspring, I was probably the one least expected, in her mind, to remember the heritage…and yet I not only remember it, I treasure it, I’m grateful for it, I have balanced it, made it friendly in my own life…and ‘it’ has a way of living in every single thing I write.
We all carry our ancestors within us, even if we don’t remember them.