My Memory Journal (Entry 1)

After reading @ericvancewalton's idea for a blockchain memory project, I promised myself I would participate. It has taken me a few days, but I want to share a memory or two, forever enshrined in the blockchain.

I was a child of the 1970s. I was born in the 1960s, but I grew up in the age of Evel Knievel and Stretch Armstrong. We had three channels (ABC, CBS, NBC) on our black-and-white television VHF channels. On a good day we might have two or three channels on UHF (PBS, particularly). The popular television shows after school were Zoom, Electric Company and Speed Racer. And a litany of cartoons, Batman, Gilligan's Island, and other sitcoms on the regular channels.

My primary care-giver was my grandmother. She was not your typical grandmother. At least, I don't think of her that way. She was a jack-of-all-trades. She attended college in the 1920s, although she was not from a wealthy family (or middle class for that matter). She was the granddaughter of Russian immigrants who arrived in the United States at the turn of the century. Although her grandfather was born in Saratov, Russia, the family spoke German. They had maintained their German heritage for more than two centuries living in the Volga region of Russia.

But that was long before my time. I remember her as a strict disciplinarian that could take you to the floor by your ear, and a loving care giver who baked fresh cinnamon bread every Saturday morning with those same thick-veined hands. Her hands smelled of roses, a scent I will forever associate with her. In those days, the hand lotion had limited fragrances. By limited, I mean "rose" was probably the only one. In my grandmother's house, that was certainly true.

My grandmother had three young boys and a young girl to manage, which is tough for a woman who has raised her own children. But she managed by setting realistic boundaries that were steadfastly enforced. Rooms were kept clean, beds were made, and children did chores. "Any job worth doing is worth doing right the first time" she would say. Sundays were sacred. We attended church in the morning and we read or listened to radio in the afternoon. No television. We would eat our meal as a family and retire to our rooms or the living room with a book. Not children's books, mind you. Novels. If we were stuck on a word, we were to ask. In spite of her many duties, she always had time to be our teacher.

She also volunteered. In my younger years, she worked at the USO. I remember going with her a few times. She had a giant tin of hard tack candy that seemed perpetually stuck together. The soldiers helped themselves to the sweets. But she also provided them with small bibles, toothbrushes and toothpaste and other items. The Vietnam war was winding down, but still ongoing in those days. I wonder sometimes how many of those young men were headed to southeast Asia. Probably a good many.

As my grandmother got older, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. No one had heard of it back then. She was initially diagnosed with "dementia" which was the catch-all for aging people. But she was very young for dementia. I remember some of the early signs. A pan left on a hot stove, drifting off in conversation or constantly misplacing things. First her glasses, and one time, her teeth (we found them in the freezer). It got worse. She sent me to school after I missed a day with a note that was signed "grandma." My teacher was not amused. Nor did she seem understanding.

As time went on, my grandmother would slip into German when she was speaking or simply lack coherence in her speech. I was in my late teens as she really started to fade. I felt a tinge of guilt for the times I had been a hard child to manage. She was strong as an ox, but her mind betrayed her. Her will to live was strong. She held on for years, several of them an empty vessel. I remember the release I felt at her funeral. I was stationed in Hawaii with the Marine Corps. The Red Cross contacted my command and advised them that she was my primary care giver growing up. I was permitted emergency leave to attend her funeral. I stood before her casket, stoic in my dress blues. But tortured in my heart. The years of uncertainty and waiting burned my cheeks as the tears broke free.

I wrote her a poem. She was buried in Ohio. I wrote the poem as a letter to the place where she was buried. It was a thank you letter. She rested peacefully with my grandfather who had passed decades before. And her daughter and granddaughter who should have never been buried before her.

She gave me gifts that a child can never fully comprehend. She valued education and reading. She valued knowledge and understanding. She modeled wisdom, composure and righteousness. She gave back to her community. She had us serve our community and later, out of duty, we served our country. My brother still serves proudly. As does my son, who never knew my grandmother, but who will soon be stationed in Afghanistan. We didn't have much materially, but what we had spiritually and as an educational foundation has taken us far. The memories I hold most dear are the memories of my grandmother, who could never know the impact she had on my life. But I hope, one day, we will meet again. And she will know.