I stared at her, unabashed. She was my great-grandmother. Four-year-olds don't embarrass easily-sometimes they may shyly hide behind their mother's skirts; but there's a difference between shyness and embarrassment. Four-years-olds also tend to forget things, unless of course, it is something that has great impact on their thoughts or impressions. I have few memories from that age, but this is one that fastened itself to the memory section of my brain, then appears unbidden to me at odd times. We were posing for a family photo-perhaps this photo was instrumental in keeping this memory alive; although, I haven't seen it in many years and do not know which family member was lucky enough for it to land in their possession. Now that I think about it, I must make it a point to ask around, for I would dearly love to have a copy of it.
My Great-grandmother died not long after this family gathering. Her exact age at the time isn't perfectly clear; I have memories in later years of family members stating that she was in her mid-nineties. I am truly sorry that I didn't get the chance to really know her. My lasting impression of her was that she was a very special lady. Few people get to know their great-grandparents and lucky are they whose parents or grandparents nourish what memories are there to keep them alive. I have written two books about my parents in the hopes that my grandchildren far down the line will have something to embellish the memories that are too shadowy, or totally non-existent, of (great) grandparents that they never had the pleasure of getting to know.
My first memory of her was frightening, to say the least; she was the epitome of all children's scary dreams. My first caricature of a witch, hair long, gray and braided, but frizzy on top where it refused to be tamed into smooth tresses. I remember thinking she seemed not much taller than I. And her leathery skin was dark and wrinkled to depths that would have strained even the most imaginative artist. My fingers, with minds of their own, ached to reach out and touch the surface of her hand as she sat with it resting on the arm of her chair. Only fear kept my arms tightly clinched against my sides as the fright coursed through my veins to the rhythmic beating of my heart.
*******
My great-grandmother was a Choctaw Indian. I can't find words to express the feeling of some tremendous loss that envelops my heart as I think about that dear lady. If only I could have known her, what her life was like as a child, as a young woman, as a mother and grandmother---then as a great-grandmother. I daydream even now, thinking about what her life may have been like with her parents. Did they love her? Was she treated well? My fantasizing puts her in a tee-pee with mother, father, brothers and sisters sitting around a fire talking and laughing together. Maybe her mother holds a tiny baby wrapped in a fur blanket. But, that may be purely the stuff of dreams.
From what I have been reading and researching about her clan's background, they were more likely, by the time my great-grandmother was born, living in log style cabins. Apparently the Choctaw people were quick to pick up European traditions and habits in Arkansas and Oklahoma, after the Andrew Jackson-lead-government forced them from their Mississippi lands and homes. I have read that her people were the first to begin the ‘Trail of Tears' as early as 1830, which was later followed by numerous other tribes of Indians. This is one story most of us have heard or read about and many of us had family members that were apart of that tragic injustice.
*******
She smiled and she had no teeth-a smile that brightened her whole face and washed away completely the image that I had first had of a witch waiting to grab little girls and push them into an open oven to cook. A smile whose contagion forced up the corners of my own tiny mouth and eye-twinkles that matched her own. Reaching out for me with her opened arms, I felt no urge to run away; but allowed her to envelop me in the warmth of her thin embrace. No longer was I frightened of this tiny old lady. I remember feeling good as she held me close in her arms-love, that is what I now like to think it was; but again, I was too young to distinguish feelings. Good must mean a form of Love, does it not? Today I am proud to be-even a tiny fragment-of the great American heritage that is the true Native American. And double-fold, as my father was descended from the Cherokee Indians.
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Sandra E. Graham, author of AMOS JAKEY and NICOLINA, from American Book Publishing. I also write book reviews for Bookpleasures
Visit my website from more info on my writing and books.
http://www.sandragraham-articles-books.com
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