TIMELESS
My Grandmother was a Master Storyteller,
my personal Big Fish.
She told me that her religion was “Native American”
Jonathan Livingston Seagull, her Bible
and the mountains, her church.
She was “alternative” long before it was in fashion.
There has never been enough time
— in any present moment—
to contain all the times she wished
to chat about.
And boy, could she talk!
Born Ruth A. Little,
she was anything but small…
but the largest part of her
was her mind,
rich with memories and imaginings...
outside of conventional time and space.
My earliest memory of her is
a juicy fat gypsy
clad in purple paisley
who wasn’t afraid to hug big
and hold tight.
Her enormous stories
mixed with the ones I learned in Sunday School
and literature class
to form the mythology of my life.
There was the wild one about her levitating cat, Ajax
—and Jonah and the Whale.
And the stories of our family history
like Idaho Nevada and Pleasant Bassham
— and Dickens' David Copperfield.
And then there were all those stories about my dad
(her eyes round with adoration)
like my father’s handkerchief diapers
the only time he ever got swatted with a switch
and why he went to college even though he never graduated high
school
—and, of course, the birth of Christ.
I loved to listen to her recount the tales
of her husband (and my grandfather)
the love of her life (and my first love).
…how they met and my grandfather
decided that “he liked the fat one.”
…how they’d owned a ranch together
and his love of horses.
…how he was quite the gambler
and why they always brought me silver dollars for souvenirs.
My grandfather and I shared a special bond.
and grandma and I knew,
(though it was the one thing about which we never spoke)
that we would both trade all the silver dollars in existence
…just to hug him one last time.
She was a beloved schoolteacher
and encouraged me to read, read, read…
yet admonished me when I read instead of looking
as we drove through the Idaho landscape —
She taught me to love both my inner kingdoms
and the Great Outdoors, as well.
All of my best vacations were with her…
the Shoshone Ice Caves,
Yellowstone,
the Salmon River,
Stanley,
Obsidian’s succulent oyster stew and homemade berry pie,
the Sawtooth City Ghost Town,
and, of course, playing Pooh Sticks.
After grandpa died,
she seemed to die right along with him.
But like the phoenix,
she resurrected from his ashes
and began to create some new stories,
this time all her own.
And just like all myth-makers…
some judged her,
some tolerated her,
…and some of us just understand.
She bought her own Walden
Pond,
a cabin in the mountains of Montana.
She wandered in the wilderness,
and found her promised land.
Eventually her body grew too frail
to contain her adventuresome spirit.
Past, present, and future existed simultaneously for her
and her reality converged
in her great mind.
My grandmother was always a Time Traveler,
…from her grand stories,
…to her progressive intellect,
…to her spiritual exploration.
Today, we celebrate the final transformation of one Big Fish…
now, she can be both a Fish and a Prophet
now, she can live in both Gooding
and Montana
now, she can be with my
grandfather, yet talk to her spirit guides
For only now is the Time Traveler set free.
—————————
