Granny

    Some stories are worth repeating.  When I started writing my newspaper column 30 years ago, I wrote one story that was picked up by a number of periodicals.  It struck a chord with editors, and I hope with readers.  I feel that it is worth repeating in this blog.  To those of you who have read it in another format, I hope you enjoy it here.

                                                             Granny

     Granny Lavery always insisted I got my love of horses from her.  When I was younger, I didn't understand how that could be possible.  I never saw my grandmother ride a horse.  I seldom saw her even pet one.  She just said they were pretty whenever she happened to see one.  Anyone could do that.

    I didn't understand that sometimes life is something to be survived, and that the choices offered can be extremely narrow.  I had to reach my forties before I could appreciate what my grandmother had to endure. 

    She was a Canadian prairie farm girl born to a family with too many daughters.  When she was 15, she was placed with a West Coast family in the city of New Westminster, British Columbia, as a maid.  She was a child, on her own.

    My mother has a black-and-white photograph of a beautiful young woman.  I believe it hardly does my grandmother justice.  She had mounds of the richest, darkest auburn hair.  I know, because I saw a lock in one of her jewelry drawers, and I envied the color.

    She married the handsomest young man in town.  Papa was an adoring husband and an indulgent father, but the income of a longshoreman was uncertain.

    Granny was tough.  With intelligence and determination, she pushed her husband and their two children to get ahead.  She had time only for what she had to do to better the circumstances of her family.  There was no place in her life for horses.  When a lot of families were losing ground during the Depression, Granny was managing to gradually put some money in the bank.  She was shrewd.

    My love for horses became evident.  I heard Granny tell my mother, "She gets that from me, Silvia."  I scoffed.

    Years passed.  Granny, long a widow, had to give up her apartment.  She moved into a nursing home.  My husband and I were starting to accumulate our herd of horses.

    She was in her nineties, and she insisted, "I'm going to Laverne's farm in Washington.  I want to see her horses."

    We talked about going to get her.  One day a cousin offered to bring her.  My folks would come as support.

    So she came.  The three-hour drive had increased her constant pain, and she arrived crotchety and slightly disoriented.  I wasn't sure the trip had been the best idea.

    She sat in her wheelchair on our patio, and we brought each of our animals up to her to touch.  She was obviously tired, and yet the rabbits, the cats, and the dog were all patted.  Then we led up the seven ponies and horses.  I was concerned that they would balk at coming to the shriveled woman with the unsteady hands, seated in a moving chair.

    I didn't give them credit for their understanding.  None of them hesitated.  It was as if they knew they were receiving a blessing.  They were the horses she never had.

    If I had any doubts as to whether Granny enjoyed the journey she was determined to make before she died, I lost them when my mother called.  She had been talking to her minister who told her, "I went to see your mother, Silvia.  She's slipping very rapidly.  She was very confused.  She seemed to think she had been to Laverne's.  She was talking about the horses."

    Mum assured him that my grandmother's mind was as sharp as ever, even if her physical health was deteriorating daily.

    We knew it would.  Granny's last wish was to see the horses, and that was done.  She died within the year.

    I know my grandmother loved horses.  My horses are her legacy.