This story begins over 20 years ago.My first husband had a drinking problem. I tried to cope with it by getting counseling and treatment for myself and by attending Al-Anon meetings. Eventually, my husband started taking tentative steps into alcohol treatment and AA. But because he was there voluntarily, rather than under court order, and because he had never been caught by law enforcement, he thought the rules that applied to the treatment group at large did not apply to him.
Thus, outpatient treatment never really worked.
One day when the drinking was just too horrible for me to stand ... and because I was concerned about how my husband would behave around our 8 month old infant and 2.5 year old daughter, I had him committed to a detox center. From there, he went directly into an inpatient treatment facility on the other side of the state. Our health insurance did not cover the treatment, so we needed to find another source of money for the payment.
My grandmother had left me a small inheritance. She asked only one thing of her grandchildren: that the money be used for something that would last, that would help us move our lives forward. Like ... for schooling or a down payment on a house. I'd been saving the money for that very reason.
But my husband was not much of a believer in the strength of the US economy and never wanted to put down roots. He was just too pessimistic that any money we put into real estate would be recouped when we sold our home.
So I took a deep breath, and used my inheritance to send my husband to rehab. After all, I reasoned, I want my marriage to be a lasting thing. I want it to move my life forward. Grandma would be OK with this use of the money.I put all my eggs in the rehab basket.
My husband was away for a month. He went to the seminars, took notes, wrote journals, did arts and crafts, took the steps of rehabilitation as they were presented to him, said all the right things to the people in charge. I was home alone, taking care of the two babies, completely stressed out and scared. In the course of that month, I contracted strep throat. My sister, the nanny, came to help me out for a while. I was incredibly grateful to her for her help and care. We grew closer as sisters than we'd been in years. The minor downside was that having her travel to Idaho was yet another expense for me.
When my husband got home, we were SO full of hope! Maybe finally we could be the healthy, happy family I wanted to be. He brought gifts for the girls that he'd made in the crafts class. He brought me two wooden cutting boards he'd crafted, sanded and oiled to use in our kitchen. We splurged and spent a night in a hotel together, hoping to re-start our marriage commitment.
But as with many folks that go through rehab, it didn't 'take.' Within 3 days, he was drinking again. Things at home went from bad to worse. That Fall, he lost his job. Six weeks after that, we separated under very bad circumstances. The babies and I went to live in a woman's shelter for six weeks, having packed only one small suitcase. From there, we were on our own.
After a year and a half of haggling and lawyers and court sessions and attempted family counseling and tears and hurt and betrayal and anger, the girls and I finally got the rest of our belongings and the marriage was dissolved. Among the items I retrieved were those two wooden cutting boards. That was all I had left of my inheritance from my grandma.
Well, my first husband didn't live much longer after we divorced. He died over 15 years ago.
I've used those cutting boards for over 20 years now. They've been sanded and bleached and sanitized over and over. They are well used — now cracked and stained. The thing is, worn out as they'd become, I just couldn't get rid of them. After all, it's all I had left of my inheritance!
Until today.
Today, my sweet husband Dale and I bought two new beautiful big wooden cutting boards. After talking to my two oldest daughters on the phone, I ceremoniously threw the old ones away.After all, the best memories of my grandmother do NOT reside in those kitchen tools! The best memories reside in the kitchen, where I cook spaghetti sauce and lasagna and pizzelles using her recipes.
The best memories of my grandmother reside in my ability to knit, for she taught me.
My best memories of my grandma are from one summer in my college years when I spent two nights a week with her in her Los Angeles apartment. The first hour of the visit, I'd listen to all her complaints and the frustrations she felt from getting old. Then she'd feed me an excellent home made (partially home grown) meal. And she'd tell me stories. And show me her journal of interesting articles, bits of inspirational verse, and jotted down thoughts and feelings. We went through her dresser drawers together. She gave me a gorgeous royal purple nightgown and a length of exquisite Japanese printed silk.
Today, I took another small step in my personal growth. I released the 'things' that were part of a hurtful past and
enshrined in these words the memories of the best parts of my love of my grandma ... the woman whose name I bear.Like the petals of a rose
That fall off in the night
My past lets go of me.
To read the entire poem, look here
1 comment:
What a sweet, poignant story. May you keep your wonderful memories of your grandmother always.
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