My Grandmother Left No Journal

My grandmother left no journal. When she died at the age of 62, I was a teenager. I never thought then how much my life might grow to be like hers. Now, her pull on me is like the rising full moon: she often draws my tide-thoughts toward her, like the dark, chaotic eddies that they are.

Donna Jean was a gifted musician; a concert pianist. She gave it all up to marry my charming, handsome grandfather. By all accounts, they and their seven children lived those early years on a shoestring, living in a modified chicken coop at one time. As my daughters’ fingers flit easily over the piano keys, I find myself wondering about Donna Jean. Did she regret her sacrifice? Did she make her peace throughout a lifetime of teaching her art to others? Sixteen years ago, I made the decision to set aside my professional goals and raise a family. Sixteen years years ago, I would have liked to know from Donna Jean, “Was it worth it?”

I stare at her glamour-girl-shot. She is radiant, her white skin set off with black hair, black brows, black lipstick. And yet I know her lipstick was red and her hair was chestnut brown. I think of the black-and-white memories told to me by her children and husband. Instinctively, I see beyond the caricature. I want, if just for a moment, to see her bright red lipstick. Her daughters argue over their memories about her: what she said or didn’t say; what she felt or didn’t feel. Each viewed her actions, her words, her life, through their own lenses. Donna Jean remains, in their memories, whoever they need her to be. But who was she really? She was so much more than a saint who stood by her man, sacrificed everything for her children, denied herself every earthly pleasure, and died a premature death, in true martyr fashion. When I plug my own memories in, I see hints of Donna Jean’s complexity. I remember her launching into an impromptu speech about her love of the Jewish people and their customs, though none of our family was Jewish. Her loyalty to family was unquestioned, but random comments betrayed that she saw exactly what people were up to. “Just remember,” she once told my sister. “Things are not always what they seem” She had no illusions about her husband. She learned to deal with disappointment and even depression. Donna Jean could get angry. I know it. And what martyrs are hooked on “The Price is Right”? Each memory seems to me to be an unused tube of watercolor paint that belongs in a rich portrait of Donna Jean in her natural surroundings. But my grandma took the paint-by-number instructions with her, and I am left looking at those black lips. If only they could speak to me now.

Donna Jean calls to me from a small picture where she poses affectionately with an old beau. He is handsome and light-haired and fine-featured; so different from the dark, rugged man she eventually married. She is beautiful in a way I barely recognize. In fact, her smile is different from the smile I see in later photographs. And so I wonder aloud to Donna Jean: What if you had chosen differently?  This man would have been my grandfather; future generations would have reflected him; and you, Donna Jean, would have forever kept that smile I see, instead of leaving it with him. Your personality would have played harmony to his; it would have evolved differently than it did. Life could have been easier, it could also have been harder. As I revisit the hard questions in my own marriage, I think of the winds that sculpted the soul of Donna Jean. My fingers trace the ink of an imaginary yellowed sheet—a phantom phrase that promises me that her life was as it should be. I desperately need to know there is more than romantic love, that there is something that softens the effects of selfishness. I need to hear that sometimes others’ lack of respect only forces self-respect to grow faster. By her patience in that situation, she left behind a man I am proud to call my grandfather. He is a man that realized, in maturity, that Donna Jean was his queen, and his family was his treasure. He continues to grow and to love; and I benefit by that love, and by that tie that still binds us together as family. She was patient enough to keep winding the string around us both. I smile at that thought, and I wonder at the smiles I have left behind, the doors that will remain closed, the avenues left unexplored. I think, if she would have kept a journal, Donna Jean would have shared this: that you make the best choices you can, you never look back, and you begin where you are-- winding string around those you love.

My grandmother left no map to follow, no written evaluation of her decision.  Her triumphs died with her, and so did her mistakes. Grandma Donna left no words to speak for her. Instead she left me. My story is a continuation of her story. It is a story that needs to be told. Someday, one of my grandchildren will read these words and remember Donna Jean. They will feel a thread reaching out across time, linking her to them. Donna Jean wore red lipstick on the smile she chose. She had the patience to keep winding. So will I. I am my grandmother’s journal.