Noah and I are leaving Sat/Sun to fly out to visit my gram. He is going to give her his old ipod loaded with the Ricky Martin and other Latino music she so enjoys along with some of the Big Band music from yester-year. He's a good egg, my boy.
Memory.
Clickety-clack went her high-heels along the sidewalk as I struggled to keep up, making sure I didn't step on a crack. Where were we? In the dusty book of days past, on some nearly forgotten shelf in my brain, are the faintest memories of shopping with my grandmother in Washington, D.C. I hear the noise of cars passing and feel my arms swinging, but the visual image is just the cement sidewalk-- my feet skipping over the cracks to avoid breaking my mother's back-- and Gramma's red heels and the pleated hemline of her skirt that was just at the knee. And clickety-clack, I had to keep up, and where are we going? but my whole movie has been edited out... except for that one scene. Clickety-clack.
I hate not being able to recall. I know she feels the same. I've heard her say it: "Oh, I'm so stupid, I can't remember the word." My grandmother has been alot of things; stupid was never one of them. And this just isn't the script she'd have written for the last scenes of her movie.
My brother just gave me the sweetest present via ancestry.com:
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The first tangible evidence of the Bluefields story. Amazing. So they left Bluefields, Nicaragua aboard the Olancho on August 29, 1923 and arrived in New York on September 5. My grandmother was five, and she and Volberg (the spelling is different than I've seen elsewhere) would live at 578 Academy St, NY, NY.
According to Gramma the apartment was across the street from a fire department. She had a mischevous side, and apparently burned a wax doll. When smoke billowed out the window, they didn't have far to come. That, and the firemen looked after her a bit as she was a latch-key kid. Her mom worked as an accountant in the fashion district. Gramma says her mom would give her money to attend piano lessons after-school, but it was just enough for pie and a soda at the local diner, so that is where she would go. Apparently it worked out fine until recital time.
My grandmother never sat for a single piano lesson...but as a kid I would marvel at how she could sit at our old piano and peck out a tune. She loved music, still does. We used to all dance with her in her living room when we visited. She has crazy stories of driving all night with my grandad to dance and listen to great music in Chicago back in the 40s. One of them involves dancing through a drummer and landing in a drum.
Well, I have rambled on through this blog tonight, and that was never my intention. Kurt's happy surprise in the middle blew the melancholy memories away, and I am dancing with my gram to "La Vida Loca."
Peace and Love, Krista
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