History and Grandparents

i am going to

fly a banner

asking

where is hanner

haven't gotten

a

call

is she playing ball

can she be

at

the mall

did she

fall

is she in

pain

using

a cane

she must be

busy

in a tizzy

i love her

still

always will

POPPY

My Grandfather, Poppy and I used to write poems to each other via email as our way of communicating. At that point we lived in different states, and I was a bratty teen who had lots of very important things to do so it was the best way for us to keep in touch. Generally my poems had little to do with anything of much importance, they just rambled on about how stressed I was for finals or that I scored a goal in the past weekends soccer game. And Poppy’s poems where an eccentric jumble of words with a loving ending that continuously made me feel like the most special person in the world. That’s what grandparents are for after all, spoiling you; stomach, brain and soul.

Now my three grandparents live within a 30-mile radius of my front door so poetry email is scarce but Sunday night dinner is commonplace. For a while I wondered, are grandparents the key to success or a vision into my future insanity? After all each one of my grandparents is lovably unique and undeniably odd. My grandmother Gaga for example can only eat half a banana, the other half she saves for days and days for all I know. Poppy takes out his hearing aids when he’s on the phone because he can’t hear, but our conversation generally ends with him saying “I couldn’t really hear what you said but I hope to see you soon.” And my grandmother Bobs said “Bah! Humbug!” Christmas morning as us kids used to race down the stairs at 5 in the morning.

Maybe the kooky words of my grandparents are both the building blocks to make me believe I’m special and the frightening insight into the craziness I will surely reach one day (arguably, I’ve reached it at 20 so it’s only downhill from here.) The presence of grandparents in my life has opened my mind to a world of stories, to a time I couldn’t comprehend on the pages of history books or behind the black and white of old family photographs. My grandparents make the past a reality. I know about the time my Poppy got $20 stolen at a movie theater “which was a lot of money back then”, about the beautiful elementary school my grandmother attended which no longer exists, about the time my other grandmother took classes from a famous artist at Brooklyn City College.

When I was young, I didn’t realize color existed before photography had color in it. I imagined everyone was black and white just as the picture of my Poppy as a young boy looks. While I still have some doubts of whether or not my Grandparents lived in color or not, I believe in history. Maybe I’ll repeat it, maybe I wont, but I know it.

Cheers,

Hannah