Roots and Wings
- By Tracy Ames
- Published November 6, 2011
Tracy Ames
Mrs. Ames is an international bestselling author of interracial erotic fiction and a former columnist for several newsletters and magazines.
A native of the San Francisco Bay Area, Tracy currently split time between CT & New York City with her husband, children and a host of pets.
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In addition to my maternal grandparent’s eight children, they adopted seven.
This was an age when if misfortune befell a family the children weren’t sent to meet their demise in dank orphanages*, they were sent to live with family and friends and, as the case with my grandparents, charitable strangers.
I rarely write about my maternal grandma because she passed away in a house fire when I was young.
Physically, I recall her having fair skin on account of her being half Creek Indian. She had high cheek bones with tiny freckles, long thick jet black hair, large eyes like mine, and a raspy voice. I remember her hands in detail. They were weathered and soft and her nails were always polished a blush-pinkish color. I loved her hands.
It’s funny what little things we remember.
Her house teemed with people; young, old, family, neighbors, and my great grandmother (Madea) and her badass jack russell.
My last vivid memory is of sitting at the kitchen table with Madea, watching my mom and grandma make schweinshaxe and semmelknödel (ham hock and German dumblings). Madea kept adding her two cents, my grandma roll her eyes, and my mom burst out laughing.
Again, funny what we remember. Anyway, back on topic.
I don’t hold the monopoly on sassiness or big heartedness. It comes from a long line of smartasses on both side of my family. I wish I’d been given the opportunity to know her better. I’d pepper her with questions. Did she have any reservations when moving her entire family to Germany? How’d she manage should a large family? I’d tell her that the cracked leather La-Z-Boy in the den, the one my granddad refused to throw out, pinched the back of my legs.
For the most part, I’d like to pick her brain. She raised a clutch of remarkable children—a few pointers would be nice.
*Especially if you were a minority!
This was an age when if misfortune befell a family the children weren’t sent to meet their demise in dank orphanages*, they were sent to live with family and friends and, as the case with my grandparents, charitable strangers.
I rarely write about my maternal grandma because she passed away in a house fire when I was young.
Physically, I recall her having fair skin on account of her being half Creek Indian. She had high cheek bones with tiny freckles, long thick jet black hair, large eyes like mine, and a raspy voice. I remember her hands in detail. They were weathered and soft and her nails were always polished a blush-pinkish color. I loved her hands.
It’s funny what little things we remember.
Her house teemed with people; young, old, family, neighbors, and my great grandmother (Madea) and her badass jack russell.
My last vivid memory is of sitting at the kitchen table with Madea, watching my mom and grandma make schweinshaxe and semmelknödel (ham hock and German dumblings). Madea kept adding her two cents, my grandma roll her eyes, and my mom burst out laughing.
Again, funny what we remember. Anyway, back on topic.
I don’t hold the monopoly on sassiness or big heartedness. It comes from a long line of smartasses on both side of my family. I wish I’d been given the opportunity to know her better. I’d pepper her with questions. Did she have any reservations when moving her entire family to Germany? How’d she manage should a large family? I’d tell her that the cracked leather La-Z-Boy in the den, the one my granddad refused to throw out, pinched the back of my legs.
For the most part, I’d like to pick her brain. She raised a clutch of remarkable children—a few pointers would be nice.
*Especially if you were a minority!
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3 Responses to "Roots and Wings"
said this on 07 Nov 2011 4:12:41 PM CDT
For a long time after my maternal grandmother's death, I wouldn't allow myself to think of the small details and interactions which made my relationship with her special. It was just too painful. Lately, as my Mom hovers somewhere between life and death, I've been thinking about my maternal grandmother a lot. I called her Mother and she called me Pumpkin. She had a soothing presence and it comforted me just to be in her presence.
When she died on Christmas day so many years ago, I was devastated. I retreated to my bedroom and allowed myself the tears I didn't want to shed in front of my young children. To this day, I swear I heard her voice tell me it would be ok. Now, as I deal with the imminent loss of my mother, I realize it all started with Mother. My mother's relationship with Mother is why my mother protested in front of the school board when the white parents in my neighborhood wanted to stop busing their children into a black neighborhood for middle school. My mother's relationship with Mother is why my mother took us on protest marches when we were children. My mother's relationship with Mother is why my mother and I talked at least once a day. I miss them both dearly and I will never feel as though I asked enough questions. I'm just grateful that both of them were my role models. |
said this on 08 Nov 2011 7:25:48 AM CDT
we do sometimes take those special moments for granted.
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said this on 09 Nov 2011 6:30:38 PM CDT
I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories. I really have to watch my topics.
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