I grew up next door to my paternal Grandmother. Nana had very wrinkled skin, always wore a print apron and seemed to live in the kitchen. Her life revolved around feeding her family.
Whenever I arrived at her house, the smell of the last meal greeted me in the hall. Each Saturday, she made hamburgers that were filled with chunks of onions. They always made my mouth water when I smelled them. Saturday dinner at my house was boring. My father loved hot dogs but I was of a different opinion as a teenager. So, I made a deal with my aunt, who also lived next door. We exchanged dinners at mid-lawn, laughing while bringing food to each other.
When I was older, I found out that my Grandmother left her village in the Ukraine to start a new life in America. Her brother came to this country first. When he saved enough money and sent it home for her passage, she travelled across the ocean alone, at the age of 16, without knowing any English.
There have been many times in my life when I’ve remembered my Ukrainian Grandmother’s courage and harnessed strength from it, when I needed to do something difficult. This story reminds me that she was a Warrior and that her blood and strength run through my veins.
My maternal Grandmother was a tall woman who had thick wavy red hair and porcelain skin. Visits with her were rare. She died when I was young so I don’t have many memories of her. One memory I have is of her sitting in bed leaning against the wall. Despite being ill, she had a regal presence.
Another image I have of her is from a photograph that was taken at my parents’ wedding reception. Both of my Grandmothers were part of a ceremony; one carried a tray with a loaf of bread and the other carried a tray of shot glasses filled with whiskey. The smiles on their faces were enormous. You would never know from that photo that my Grandmother had significant leg pain at her daughter’s wedding. There was a presence to her that defied the conditions of her life.
I was told that my Mother’s Mother was someone that people came to for advice. Knowing this gladdened my heart and almost made up for the fact that I did not spend much time with her. I see my Italian Grandmother as a Wise Woman.
My Mother was a quiet woman who had a hotline to God. If there was a need for prayer, she was the one to ask. When my Mother was 6, she had a vision of the hand of God reaching down to her from a cloud. When she was a teenager, she helped take care of her mother every day after school; then started her homework at 9:30. I was not surprised to learn that she considered becoming a nun before she met my father.
My Mother was a loving and giving person, who willingly lived a life of service. She made a difference by doing things quietly behind the scenes. She devoted her life to raising her daughters and creating a warm, loving home. From all that she was and all that she did, I see my Mother in a Holy Light.
When I reflect upon the soul essence of my female ancestors, I see a Warrior, a Wise Woman and a Holy Woman. I am very grateful to know that each of them live inside me and my daughter.
12/17/15