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My great-aunt Rose died today. She was my maternal grandfather’s sister and lived in Hendersonville, NC, almost all her life. Because of my grandfather’s mental illness and the strain that placed on my grandmother, Aunt Rose took care of my mother’s oldest sister Diana, forming a very close bond. Aunt Rose never wanted to leave her house, but Aunt Diana finally prevailed upon her to be relocated to a nursing home, for her own health and safety. That was only a few weeks ago.
My maternal grandmother Justine (“Gran”) is now the only one left of that generation in my family. It motivates me again to record her story before she passes. She’s in her mid-80s and still very mentally sharp, but her body is understandably becoming more feeble. She still lives on her own in Raleigh and we see her quite a bit. Last summer at the beach, during our yearly extended family get-together (always different combinations of relatives), we ate at a local seafood restaurant and Gran and I sat across from each other. We’ve always had a good relationship and conversation has invariably been easy, but during that luncheon, I asked her questions about my grandfather Samuel, who I never knew (he died when I was very young) and how they met just after the war. She obligingly shared her recollections about that and much that came to pass afterward. We were in our own world, her sharing and me absorbing as much of the family history as I could, and the rest of the lunch party got up to leave around us almost unnoticed. My mom later told me that Gran had never told anyone, not even her own daughters, about much of her life. I want another conversation like that. I don’t want those things to be lost.
my condolences.
I’m sorry to hear that.