What Legacy hath Love?

After my grandfather passed away, my grandmother’s dementia soon got to the point that my mother and her brother and five sisters had to make the decision to move her into a nursing home. They faced the daunting task of going through her things.

Daunting because she was a collector of things – of porcelain figurines and china, of romance books and Life magazines, of afghans and brocade pillows, costume jewelry and shoes. Lots of shoes.

Tucked away in a shoebox in her dresser they found a stack of letters bound with a gold stretchy band, the kind used to hold the stems of roses together in a bouquet. Most were letters from her children who had moved off for college and then marriage – some the other way around. Mother’s day cards and birthday cards from various fond family and friends. And love letters from my grandfather.

Sweet, simple love letters from their courtship days, before the war and the depression, when he returned from college to work the family business and take care of ailing parents and a widowed sister and her children. Before seven children of their own. Before heart attacks and arthritis. And all the dreams put on hold while they lived with the hand that the times had dealt them.

Every now and then my mom would pay me a few dollars to clean her and dad’s room. Wipe down the bedroom furniture with polish, make the bed, organize the things on top of her dresser and put away her clothes. My mom’s personal mementos were in her top dresser drawer. Necklaces, brooches, a ladies nail grooming kit and letters bound with a rubber band. There were letters from her parents -- words of encouragement in facing her own hard times. Letters from my sister, off at private school and then college. Mother’s Day and birthday cards, some homemade, some with personal notes from her sisters or daughters. But no love letters.

I can’t point to any certain moment when I realized this – that none of her personal, private things included a history of a relationship between a woman and her husband. No love letters from the years they dated, no Valentine’s Day cards with personal notes from their early years of marriage, no senior ring on a silver chain necklace, or pressed flowers, or promise rings. And no photos. Not in the top dresser drawer, or in the family photo albums. There were the photos of children and family events from both sides of the family. But no star-crossed teenagers, no lovers with his arm casually around her waist and her fingers tucked into his back jeans pocket. None even of husband and wife at any time throughout the years of their marriage.

I think it was more of a growing awareness that these two people who were my mother and father had never been more than that, than a particular moment of revelation that something very important was missing in the story of their lives. That they had never been anything to each other that included emotion and desire, comfort and understanding. I look back now and realize they spent their time together as awkward strangers, co-workers in the “family” business with no relationship outside their job of raising a family and making ends meet. No love letters.

At this point in my own life and marriage, I’m starting to wonder what my own children will think about their mom and dad as awareness of such things grows. What memories will they have of us as husband and wife, of something more than their parents? When they find my collection of personal memories, will there be any love letters other than the handful from our brief pre-marriage days? The marriage memory book, with only the first two years filled in? The one photo of us on our wedding day? Will that be enough?

I can only hope that love has a history, has a heritage, and that my children will come full circle back to the love and affection of my grandparents. I hope there are rings on necklaces and flowers pressed in books of poetry. That there are photos of her wearing his letter jacket. Of him smiling at the camera as he hugs her from behind, arms wrapped around her in a bear hug, squeezing her tight. Of their heads touching close while holding their baby. Of them sitting on the grass in front of their first home, new puppy in her lap. And that there are love letters, many love letters from throughout their years together, from anniversaries and Valentine’s Days, of other days just because.

Someday, I pray, their grandchildren will have a memory like I have, of one sweet moment when time stopped because an elderly couple stopped what they were doing on Christmas morning, because their favorite song came on the radio. A moment the whole family stopped and looked on, the sons and daughters and grandchildren with their own history of struggles and disappointments in life and love, of dreams put on hold.

When that man and woman, 40-plus years in love, went back in time, moved in close, wrapped their arms around each other, and danced.

Advice from a country girl's mother

I love country music. No, that isn’t exactly true. I love country love songs. I can do without the crying-in-my-beer, redneck-with-a-truck-and-a-dog kind of country and western songs. But I have to tell you, no one can write a love song like a country music artist.

Of course, my favorite songs won’t be playing when you are grown, baby girl. Or maybe they will – country songs have a way of hanging around forever. Every once in a while I still hear some song I remember my daddy singing as we drove along the road on a hot summer day with the windows down on his old black Chevy truck. Wow, that sounds like a good line for a country western song.

Here’s what I find so special about the ones I like these days. The guy singing the song is bowled over, down to the bone in love with a woman. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t take his eyes off her. He loves her when she’s crabby, when she’s bossy, when she’s down. He looks at her and sees something other than hair and face and boobs. What he sees is the future mother of his children, the keeper of his soul, the reason he gets a tightness in his chest for no particular reason when he catches a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye.

To me, there is something freeing about that. That woman never has to worry about how she looks in her flannel pajamas when the lingerie commercial comes on. She can be who she wants to be, not who she thinks every man wants her to be. And still have this immense confidence that she is loved. That she will always be loved. That for one incredible man, she is sexy, beautiful, amazing and worth an eternity of minutes, hours and years.

I don’t know many women who have been loved like that. I can probably count them on one hand. My grandmother, but not my mom. My good friend, but not me. The woman who sits on my left at work, but not the ten others who sit to my right.

All I do know is that I want that for you.

He’s out there somewhere, you know. Don’t make the mistake of thinking any old guy with a truck and a dog will do.

Hold out for the guy who looks at you like his heart is about to burst. The guy who takes to listening to country music for no apparent reason. I’m betting he’s finding his own personal story – the one that has you in it.

And watch out for the guy who likes the songs about saying goodbye, about all the women he’s loved, all the exes he has in Texas. His heart and his head aren’t in the right place. He’s not the kind of guy you can turn into the other guy. There isn’t anything you can do to change his way of looking at life. Just realize that he isn’t looking for the same thing you are just because he’s looking in your general direction.

I can already tell you that the guy who breaks your heart will break my heart, too. They say that Hell hath no fury than that of the mother of a woman scorned, or something like that. In the words of my daddy, ‘that dog won’t hunt.’

You might just warn guys in advance. Or maybe I will. I know, I’ll sing’m a country love song.

Me and every redneck mother in the history of country music have your back, girl.