A wise, old granny

Sensible beyond her years, my wife, Susan, has tried to curb my tendency to buy first, budget later. Spontaneous spending is an interesting habit; I know the euphoria of instant acquisition is often followed by buyer's remorse (the hangover of mindless consumption), but snap decisions aren't always regretted, however, and one has become priceless to us. In July of 2001, Susan and I were walking along Locke St. in Hamilton, and found ourselves in Pat Foss's studio; her ceramic garden sculptures on the steps had beckoned us in. We were soon admiring, a thirty-four inch statue aptly titled Grandmother. Not much later, we were arranging to have her delivered. Grandmother has been gracing the backyard, and growing in stature, since. She is universally loved and admired. It is a festive piece that celebrates all our grandmothers. She is of no discernible ethnicity; some see Inuit, some Polynesian, and others Native Canadian, but everyone sees a prototypical grandmother; hearty, knowing, and loving. Grandmother's wide, round face is etched with the lines of experience, and with a brow furrowed, she is always looking cautiously ahead. Practicality overrides her vanity because, although windblown, her unevenly cut black hair never impairs her vision. Grandmother's large, black penetrating eyes know what to look for, and what to turn away from. Our ceramic matriarch is a stocky, hearty woman, and her brown billowing coat falls to the ground in a generous circumference, giving her infallible stability. Her right hand is thrust into a pocket, and tucked under her left arm is Grandson. There's a bewildered look on the lad's face, but he couldn't be in better care. In Grandmother's left hand is a tiny broom; there's always something to do. There is a vibrancy, a living quality, to Grandmother that's difficult to explain. She throws a soothing radiance. I speculate that if she could talk, (and if she were asked,) Grandmother could tell all of us something about life. She'd tell us to pursue happiness, but acknowledge how difficult it is. She'd tell some of us to curb our appetites, and encourage others to speak up for their rights. She'd tell some people to slow down, and others to get their ass in gear. She'd tell us to work hard and be kind to strangers. Children, are important, she'd say, but so is everybody else. She'd tell us to leave something for the next guy. She'd say the right things. Her advice, solicited or otherwise, would be sound, and admonishments well deserved. She'd complain sparingly and judiciously. She wouldn't be able to tell jokes worth a damn, but she'd be funny as hell. Grandmother has become part of the family. She sits tirelessly, devotedly in the backyard all year round; her in-law suite the great outdoors. Our two young girls often involve her in their imagination games; chronically telling her what to do. Grandmother dutifully plays along without protest, bemused by all the instructions and how quickly the rules are changed. Life, she knows, is like that. Grandmother stands in the middle of the yard, and we have come to depend on her presence. She's a proverbial rock: ever there, and, beautiful by any measure, always a welcomed sight. Sometimes I'll rub her head for luck, and hope a little of her fortitude rubs off. (I suspect Grandmother sympathises with my superstitions and harbours a few of her own.) It must be quite a thing to be a grandmother; one can only speculate. Pat Foss, I think, captures the essence beautifully, and we're fortunate to be hosting Grandmother. It was a good impulse.

Image courtesy of stock.xchng.