I am no one special. People don’t recognize my name or my face. I’m just one of many travelers, wandering the Earth in search of some kind of meaning…some way to leave a mark or make a difference…or perhaps, just be remembered.
I’m not extraordinary, but I have known someone who was. Her name was Lovely Summer Snow. She was my maternal grandmother, but I called her Granny.
Granny was born in the late 1800’s. Her parents were Benjamin Walker Snow, a lover of the sun and warm climates, and Edna Morris Summer, a lover of cold weather that nipped at your nose and chilled you to the bone. They were an unlikely pair, but were completely devoted to each other.
When Granny came along, the first words out of the doctor’s mouth were, “isn’t she just lovely?” At that instant, Edna decided that would be her name. Lovely. And she would combine her maiden name with her married name, creating a sort of oxymoron. “Lovely Summer Snow.”
Occasional, playful teasing about her name didn’t bother Granny and she grew into a fine, confident woman who was fiercely independent, and wise beyond her years.
I remember as a young child, and as a young adult, Granny had a presence about her that put me completely at ease, yet could at times, rendered me almost fearful…the kind of fear you feel when you know you have disappointed someone.
I never knew my grandfather. He died before I was born, and Granny never re-married. I don’t think another man could have ever filled his shoes.
In her younger life, Granny had been a teacher, and in her later life, there were lessons still to be taught. Proper grammar was an absolute for her. She would rather be put to death than hear a sentence end with a preposition, and I believe a dangling participle would have sent her on a murderous rampage.
I learned to never ask, “where are you from?” and if I had ever dared to ask where something was “at,” I fear I would have been torn apart by wild dogs.
I guess you could say that Granny was a bit of a snob when it came to grammar etiquette, but actually, she was a lover of words. She was a lover of books. She was a lover of writing, and could string words together like a fine tapestry.
I used to marvel at the sound of her voice as she read the poetry and stories that she wrote. Her words flowed like a fine wine gently trickling from a crystal carafe. It was almost majestic. The characters in her stories were described in such vivid detail, you would almost expect them to jump from the page and say hello.
I always envied her talent. It almost seemed to come too easily to her. Maybe envied is the wrong word, and if I were being honest, I think the proper word might be resented. I resented that she didn’t pass her writing talent to me.
I can compose a sentence, but lacking any semblance of imagination, I could never author the magnificent prose that she so easily created…but I will write.
I have no illusions of my writing ever being published or featured in a magazine. My stories won’t be about scandalous liaisons between an actor’s husband and the nanny, or a high profile public figure who gets caught with a prostitute. My stories will be about real people. Ordinary people…like me.
I will talk to them, write about them, and ask the one question I will forever regret having never asked Granny.
“Of what do you dream?”
To be continued____________