Generations past...

I have been thinking a lot about my grandmother lately.  This past Wednesday, it was 4 years since she died, and I think I miss her more now than I did even at the time or just one year later.  See, my grandmother was one of the people I most looked up to when I was growing up.  She was friendly and kind to everyone, but somehow you knew not to cross her.  She had this incredible, quiet power about her that warned children to be respectful and good, and grandchildren to behave like angels.  I personally never saw the result of misbehaviour in her presence, my sister and I just KNEW better, but I have a feeling that it was a terrible experience. 

When I was little, she would bring presents, but they always had a story or an interesting origin. 
As I grew older, the presents changed, from objects to conversation, and I was able to talk with her like an equal.  It seemed she understood everything I was about, and knew my dreams and aspirations as if they were her own.  About the time I was fifteen or maybe sixteen, I realized that I wanted to be just like my grandmother.  Smart, savvy, with one foot firmly rooted in tradition, and the other moving through the present, learning new technology, keeping up with politics and current fashion, Jane was the anchor for an entire family, across many generations.  She was the matriarch.  She loved all of her grandchildren equally, though, I'm sure we all thought that she liked us best.  Any person within her clam waters felt the serenity that she emitted like a lighthouse on a rocky coast.

I find myself wondering, as I get older, what she would think of my life...  While I know that our paths cannot be the same, I so want to be all of the things that I admired in her, and I want to make the right choices to get me there.  I believe that she is strong in me though.  Maybe I got a more potent dose of Jane-genes in my selection of DNA, or maybe I learned enough from her over the years, either way, I believe that I am making her proud.

Yesterday, I opened the roll of knitting needles that she collected over her years of knitting so that I can use them to start my own woven history.  I remember her, always, sitting in many different living rooms, half watching TV, hands working quickly, creating a swath of scarf or sweater from a string trailing from her fingers, down her left side to a small bag at her feet.  This year, I am going to learn this skill.  To transfer my love into material that can be wrapped around the ones I love.