If Only....

It’s funny how the value of someone’s work or words becomes more valuable in death. Sometimes even relationships with individuals grow stronger as well.  I think the value of one’s life can also increase in value after death. A spiritual union so to speak; like the one I have with my grandmother (my dad’s mom). I can honestly say that I never knew her well. Her and my father had several hardships with one another, which at times meant she was not part of our life. What I do remember of her was that she was one classy lady. In the 70’s she traveled to Las Vegas often; she loved to see Elvis. Always in a pencil skirt, blouse and always looked glamorous. When she would visit she always talked about the clubs she visited; and based on how she looked I thought she was famous. I recall thinking and sharing with others that she was a star. She had presence about her that made me want more of her. The way she crossed her long thin legs and held herself was graceful. Even the way she smoked her long cigarettes was romantic. Agnes is one of the most complex and yet intriguing women I know. 

My grandmother passed away just before I celebrated my first year wedding anniversary. I had not had any contact with her for several years at that point. I was sad when I heard of her passing; mostly saddened by the loss of a relationship and how I wished things could have been different for us and her.  Grandma was a bitter woman; scorned by the man who is my dad’s father. He decided that when he was to return from the war he would no longer be in the relationship with her or his son. I had only met my grandfather one time when I was a small child, I believe I was 7 or 8 the first time he visited our home. I do not recall how well he interacted with my father but I remember the excitement I felt seeing an older man that looked just like my dad. I also remember being very happy to know that my dad had a father. 

It was not until Agnes's death that I once again had contact with him. I searched for him to inform him of her death. By the amazing grace of God it turned out that he was residing a mere 5 minute drive from where I lived in Chatham. I contacted him to let him know that Agnes passed away; he was incredibly surprised to know how close by we were. He thanked me for informing him of her passing and asked me to send along his condolences to my father. It was not even an hour after our phone conversation when the door bell rang at my home. My husband came into the kitchen and said “uh ...there is a man here that looks exactly like your dad!” I ran to him and we embraced, he kissed me all over my face. I spent many days with him for several years, and got to know him very well. We spoke of Agnes quite often but he always had rules about what he would speak of and what he wouldn’t. I respected that, and never pushed for the real questions I longed to ask him. I was just grateful that I had him in my life. 

 

My Grandfather did tell me that Agnes was one of the most beautiful women he knew and he bragged of her talent. Even though his relationship with her had ended, he had shared with me some of the letters that she had sent him. I was very surprised to know he kept them. Grandma was a very talented woman; she could sew, knit, crochet, paint, draw and write.  Several years after her passing my mother gave me one of her books. It is titled “This is My Song”. She had written some of the most painful poems I have ever read. She captured every detail of how she felt; living with a broken heart. She never got over losing the love of my grandfather.  Each day I read her poetry, and am reminded of her incredible talent. I feel the words that she has left behind paints an incredible picture of her state of mind; it also makes me understand her. It is not always what she has put to words it is what she does not say that moves me. I am connected to her... 

It is truly a blessing that she recorded her life through her writing. She has left our family with an incredibly valuable gift. The gift is the realization of who she truly was. “This is My Song” mirrors what she hoped and dreamed for her in her life, and unfortunately for her she never reached the goals of which she longed for. If only she had the courage to publish her works. Now that I have one of her books I want to honour her life and her dreams. I will publish her book this year in the honour of completing that dream. I want her legacy to survive; much the same as I wish to in my own life.  I know that her voice was never heard. Despite her bitterness and the scornful way in which at times she treated people I now know that her pain kept her from enjoying her life; with us her only family. I am so very happy that I have taken the time to get to know her; now, and it’s not too late to love her even though she is no longer alive.

The reasons in which I find myself writing blogs is very similar to what Agnes has done with her poetry. I have left my thoughts and opinions so that someday when I pass; my loved ones will have something to look upon and find understanding in the life that I have lived. Each day I find myself thinking of her and how much she has inspired me.  I will leave you with a couple of her thoughts...... Thank you Grandma.

~Christine~

This is My Song

If you think, that I am gay

Be with me now

-Before they lay me away.

If your lips, want to kiss me

Kiss me now

For I know, you’ll miss me

If you are, in love with me

Tell me now

Or in death, let me be.

And if you feel

It’s me that you seek

Tell me now

I beg you to speak

Don’t stand beside

My grave and speak

Your tender words of love

For if you love me

Don’t wait too long

Tell me now

-This, is my song!

~Agnes Berry~

Lonely

Telephone, Telephone

On the wall,

How come there is no one

Who wants to call?

Other phones

I’ve heard ring,

To other folk

Good news did bring.

But you are silent

As you nestle there,

A constant reminder

There is no one to care.

For to have a phone

That never rings,

Is worse than

No phone at all.

For without a phone

You can always think,

Maybe -someone

Wanted to call.

~Agnes Berry~