How Do You Want To Be Remembered?

  

Jonathan tells me that my country accent becomes SUPER thick when I'm with my extended family. I don't notice it really. I suppose I do say things like "I reckon" and "rurn't" (instead of ruined) and other things of the like.  I also NEVER drink coffee unless it's a fancified frappé of some kind unless I'm at my Pa's house. When I'm there I not only drink coffee, but I drink it black with a little bit of sugar and I knock back 2-3 cups before 10:00 AM.  Why is it that the Rachel Womack that exists in everyday life is in such stark contrast to the Rachel Womack who shoots the breeze on her Pa's porch in Clanton, Alabama?  Well my best guess is that I revert back to those easy ways of life because they bring me joy. I drawl with the best of them in that familiar Deep South accent because phrases like "I do declare" and "bless her pea pickin' heart" and "ain't nothin like..." take me back to my roots. And porch sittin', coffee drankin', and breeze shootin' are...well they're just what you *do* when you're there. Life slows down...simplifies to only the things that truly matter...and I just settle into the familiarity of my family. We drink coffee at Pa's pretty much throughout the day and sometimes into the evening. Why?  Because there's something about that worn coffee pot, the smell of hazelnuts, and the nostalgic nature of the little cup I drink it from that warms my soul through and through. 

There is also something magical about seeing the joy on your grandparents' faces when they interact with your child. That added respect for your own parents that you get when you have kids...that "you were up with my screaming self at 3 AM too once upon a time...wow I wish I'd never been my angsty teenage self to you now that I know what I put you through"...is maybe magnified with regard to your grandparents. And there's something marvelous about 80+ year old arms holding a 9 month old, something endearing about pudgy 9 month old hands pressing into the wisdom of an 80+ year old cheek, something fantastic about a baby's belly laugh when they are amused by their *great* grandparents.

This time while Jonathan and I were in Clanton, we decided to make good on our intentions of...well of immortalizing our family members in a way. In the same way that having a child makes you respect your upbringing, it also makes you acutely aware of mortality. For me in particular I find myself hyper aware of the memories I want Greysen to forge...of the deep set memories I myself have of my great grandparents, my grandparents, my parents. A solid part of me wants to freeze these moments in time so that when he's 30 and he has trouble remembering what his grandmother's voice sounded like, he can just drum up that vault of memories seared into his heart and reminisce about "the good ol' days". But the fact of the matter is, no matter how hard we try to deeply seal away those memories so that they never fade, they do. My grandfather has been gone from my life for nearly 17 years. I know he smelled of Kourus cologne, roses, and fresh cut grass, but I can no longer conjure that smell up in any tangible way. I know he used to squeeze my cheeks and say " soooooo sweet" but for the life of me, even though I can still see his face and imagine his hands on my cheeks, I can no longer hear his voice. I can't feel the warmth and roughness of his palms on my face.  So Jonathan and I set out with a plan. A project if you will. And I'm not sure we even understood the depth of its meaningfulness until we actually started carrying it out...

We set up a microphone. Connected to the computer. And I sat across the table from my Pa, from my Mimol, each separately...independently, and we talked. They told me about their childhood, their parents, the old family stories that I've heard for years and many I'd never heard.  They told me what their fears are, what their joys are, what they are proudest of (for both of them it was their family). I heard military stories from my Pa, I heard the stories and significance of my grandmother's tea cup collection, I heard the break in their voices when they spoke about losing their own parents, I asked them how they would want to be remembered. We bottled all of those things up and immortalized them on a hard drive. Their great great great great great grandchildren will be able to press play and hear each of them say how much they love their family and how hopeful they are for the future of their children's children's children. Those kids, generations from now, will know they were loved and considered a hundred years before they walked this earth. And I will never have to dig into the depths of my memory to try and conjure up the sound of my Mimol's voice or the warmth of my Pa's laugh. I'll just press play...

As they each progressed through their respective interviews I felt a weight lifting from both of them. You know, in a way I think we all strive throughout life to find a way to immortalize ourselves. We search for ways to make our mark on the world in big ways and in small ways.  We hope that when we're gone our loved ones will think fondly of us...remember the good times...smile when they reminisce about us. But how do you go about that?  Seems a bit arrogant to say "Hey, record me talking about myself so everyone can hear my stories."  But how liberating it was for them both to be *asked* to do that...how meaningful it was for them to be able to tell their stories...and how impactful it was for them to say the words they needed to say. We forced a conversation that might not have ever happened. We asked the hard questions. And what we ended up with was something profound. A snapshot of each of my grandparents. An in depth look at what makes them who they are! In 50 years when I'm 80 years old, I will still have that recording to listen to. To share with Greysen's children. We immortalized each of them. In the most authentic way we could...

I asked them each this question: "If this was our last conversation ever, what would you want to make sure I heard from you?"  I won't go into detail about their answers about that, but I *will* say that hearing them answer that question made me think. We always say that we aren't promised tomorrow. But what will your loved ones know about you when you're gone?  How will they remember you? Will they know that you love them deeply? If the conversation you're having with your mother over lunch is the last conversation you ever have with her, what would you want to make *sure* she heard from you? 

Perhaps we should each take stock of our legacy.  Of the legacy of our loved ones. And respect their impact on the future...