Memories of Grandma

            This is another essay written for my college Composition class. It was probably one of the hardest things to write about for me. Whether or not I earned a good grade on this assignment was not important at the time. I wanted to tell a story about how my Grandma saved me. I wanted to try and express just how much her influence shaped my life.

             Trying to pin down a single memory about what shaped my identity as a writer and a reader is like trying to catch a goldfish in the ocean; it feels nearly impossible. The first five years of my life were not what they should have been. Rather than having a childhood full of adventure and discovery, mine was full of violence and fear. As a result, I didn’t have many of the typical experiences that most children have during their early years. I didn’t know any nursery rhymes or have a favorite story book. I didn’t understand why kids got excited for Christmas or birthdays. I didn’t know how to play with toys or use my imagination to create games.  I was literally stunted in my emotional and social growth. As a way of self preservation, I had closed myself off from everything. I didn’t speak unless spoken to. I didn’t dream. I didn’t hope. I survived day to day and that was all I knew.

I think that if things had continued on that way I probably would have ended up in some sort of institution - locked up and forgotten. Instead, my grandparents stepped in and rescued me. They took me in: a small, frightened and fragile child, afraid of my own shadow and introduced me to a life I hadn’t dared imagine. They taught me everything. They showed me what life was supposed to be like for a child. They taught me to find joy and happiness in the things around me; to live life to the fullest everyday and dream of bigger and better things for the future. They literally saved my life.

My Grandma was the first person ever to sit down and read to me. 

There was an old, worn out rocking chair that sat in the corner of our living room. The black paint was long faded and cracked from years of use. At some point Grandma had decided to drape a garishly colorful knitted afghan over the back as a way to spruce it up. That chair would creak and crack every time someone sat down in it; like it was daring the person to actually rock in it. It was in that ancient rocking chair that Grandma would sit, with me on her lap, reading to me stories about corduroy bears that had lost buttons and curious monkeys who befriended men in big yellow hats.

I was still too young to read to myself at that point, but the fire had been lit. I remember grabbing books and looking at their pictures for hours trying to figure out what the story could be about. I begged my Grandma to read me anything she could get her hands on from shampoo bottles and cereal boxes to junk-mail and the daily newspaper. She always indulged me. When she ran out of things to read to me she would tell me about a story she had read as a child or one that she had been told.

It wasn’t long before I began to not only read on my own, but excel to levels much higher than my age group; much to the surprise of my therapists and kindergarten teacher, who said it would take years before I would be on grade level academically. Once I started reading I quickly discovered that I could lose myself in the story – my reality changed and I no longer had to think of my past. Reading allowed me to be anyone I wanted to be: to travel to places I never dreamed existed; to experience the adventure and pure joy of being a kid without being tainted by my complicated history. I discovered a freedom and anonymity in the pages of books that I could not find in real life.

That love of reading eventually blossomed into a love of writing. I started to put down my thoughts and ideas in journals and began to piece them together; creating characters and far-away places that I imagined all on my own. Of course I would read these stories to my Grandma at nighttime. She would usually be crafting or working on one of the massive puzzles she loved to piece together. She always listened intently and never criticized what I had come up with. She encouraged me to write anything I wanted and not to be afraid of what others might say. Because of that encouragement, I continued to write without fear and eventually had one of my stories selected as the grade level winner for our school districts Young Authors contest. It was a moment that I will never forget and a moment that was only possible because of my Grandmothers encouragement and support.

My love of reading and writing has never waned and if anything only seems to get stronger as I get older. I still read almost anything I can get my hands on and though I don’t write creatively much anymore, I still write in a journal regularly to keep track of my thoughts and ideas. My personal journey in life has not been typical and I have come close to not having a life at all. I truly believe that if I had not been exposed to books and developed a strong love of reading and writing, I would have struggled to express myself and deal with my past in a healthy and productive way. Those early moments sitting with my Grandma in that rocking chair shaped my future in a way that even she could not have predicted.