I did not like my grandmother. As a matter of fact, I actively disliked her. She was in her eighties when I knew her as a little girl. Through my eyes she was old, and ugly, and mean, and selfish, and where ever she was, she seemed to bring trouble. I was not the only one who saw her as difficult. The stories of her unpleasantness were many.
Recently I had a grown-up look at my Grandmother and started to see things differently. I imagined what it might have been like to walk in her shoes. She had seven children. She worked not only in her home above the family shop, but also worked full time in the shop. My sister tells me that she was a wet nurse for a family in need as well.
She had three sons who went to war and only two of them returned. She had a son die of cancer and her husband died in his early sixties, leaving her over twenty years to live without him.
She lived through two World Wars, the Great Depression, the Korean War and the Vietnam War. She lived through a time where women had a lot less power and choice than they do now. She was deeply affected by drought, and flood, and other hardships I will never know.
She was strong and hardworking. She suffered. She survived. I am of her stock. I am her blood. I identify with her womanliness and now I no longer dislike her. I see her as a woman who lived loud, and long, with struggle and determination. I think I may be a bit like her.