As the holidays approach, I find myself reflecting more on my grandmother. Perhaps it’s because my Mimi, who has been an instrumental influence in my life, passed away just two weeks before Thanksgiving. Or it’s simply the poignant feeling the holidays evoke as we age. Regardless, if you are missing a loved one this year, I invite you to enjoy the story shared by a new friend, along with excerpts from the journal that her grandmother left to her.
The Journal
I met Crystal at a writer’s conference last year. I noticed her handbag and decided to introduce myself, as I share a passion for beautiful accessories. As we talked, we discovered our mutual admiration for specific authors, and I learned about her expertise in C.S. Lewis’s works and her extensive background in education.
We connected on social media, and I often reached out with questions about writing and research. During one conversation, she mentioned inheriting her grandmother’s journal, which surprisingly detailed experiences similar to those of Rosie the Riveter. Intrigued, I asked if she would share the story behind this treasured heirloom, and she graciously agreed.
I genuinely appreciate Crystal sharing the heartfelt story of her grandmother’s journal. The story below reveals an extraordinary woman whose vibrant spirit and wisdom come alive in those cherished pages, and I hope you find as much joy in them as I did! Enjoy your reading!
PPT: You mentioned inheriting your grandmother’s journal. How did you come to receive it, and what did you discover inside?
Crystal: It started like this: “I have that journal you gave to Mom a few years ago. Do you want it back?”
My mother was on the phone, surrounded by the remains of my grandmother’s possessions. The last couple of months had been painfully slow, like walking underwater. I know where she is now, but it still stings. The first phone call hit me with a weighty uneasiness. Mammaw had a fall. At 94, she was delicate, although she still exuded the same mental and physical toughness, that resolute stubbornness, that she had in previous decades. Thursday evening, she fell but was limping around her living room. The paramedics shrugged and simply said, “I think she is just shook up, but she’s fine.” Mammaw dismissed the whole episode as an act of clumsiness. Then they left.
The next morning, the pain set in. Her hip was throbbing, and her collarbone was deeply bruised. Her foot, we discovered later, was also broken. My aunt called the ambulance again, and Mammaw was whisked away to the emergency room. After tests and examination, the doctors confirmed that the fall had broken her hip, and soon, Mammaw was brought into surgery for a replacement. She survived the surgery, but the anesthesia left Mammaw experiencing strokes. She was thirsty, weak, and exhausted.
Saturday morning, I came to the hospital room, where she smiled and whispered my name. She held my hand in hers and struggled to speak. She asked for water. She inquired about other family members. One nurse, whom she was certain was her grandson, politely reminded her that he wasn’t “Kevin.” Unconvinced, Mammaw raised a gentle hand, grabbed his nametag, and squinted at the letters. Ever the consummate lady, she was always concerned about her hairdo. Several times, she lifted a fragile arm to her head and lamented, “My hair is a mess.” Throughout my visit, I stroked her hair, still full of thick silver locks, and assured her that she looked beautiful. Later, I would ask the funeral director for a snip of her hair to place in a locket. “I know it’s a bit Victorian,” I smiled, “but I want a small piece of her to remain with me.” At the time, I had forgotten about the journal.
Soon, she began a seizure as I stood by her bedside. She quieted and fell unconscious. Sunday morning, she lifted her hands to the sky, laid back, and was ushered into Heaven. That day, I stood by her as family came in to visit before the funeral home arrived. As bizarre as it sounds, I found these moments brimming with a quiet and sacred love: a love that surrounded me that defined all of us. She was the matriarch, and now, as an inventory of family members passed through the threshold of the hospital room, her absence was dawning on me in strange and difficult ways.
Two months passed. My mother, the power of attorney, took care of the final arrangements. The house was to be sold and split as according to her will; her few meager possessions distributed to family or sold. Reading was a passion that my Grandmother and I both shared. She once confided in me that her deepest regret was not attending college, where she would have likely been a history or English major. My mother wanted me to have her bookcase, one that Mammaw had inherited from her coal-mining father. It was a most precious gift!
And then, the journal resurfaced. I vaguely remembered it. The teal cushioned journal with a vibrant chrysanthemum bloom embossed on the cover, echoing the words from I John 4:7: ‘Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God.” I had given it to her a few years before with pens inscribed to her. I asked her to record her memories here, on these lined pages. It came back into my hands with an indescribable joy.
I found her once again through her slender, elegant, and self-assured calligraphy. Slightly sloped cursive in blue and black. She had returned to the journal multiple times, filling it with stories of her youth in Hot Coal, West Virginia. It was evident in the slow and contemplative rhythm that she had approached the task with great care. She was recaptured in all her magnificence here: her astute memory, her sharp wit, her unfailing humor, her adroit observations.
In taking care of typical illnesses, Mammaw wrote, “…there was cough syrup. Most of us got well from it or in spite of it (joke). My Dad had us to drink a raw egg sometimes, he heard that was good for you. Jack [her brother] always said you just have to swallow it once then it slides down.” Of her beloved coal town, she reflected with humor: “Most of the homes were privately owned, a few company houses. Several other families from Hot Coal moved there too. The only fault there [was that] the main road had several beer joints. But they didn’t bother anyone. Except one was across the creek from the Baptist church. On Sunday, you could hear the country music from the beer joint while church was going on.”
Even in the deep valley of coal country amidst the ails of the Great Depression, her mind was sparkling vividly against the drowsy backdrop of soot-covered men and the “black gold” sleeping in the bowels of the earth. She recalls the three-room schoolhouse, how the buildings were always covered with a layer of coal dust, how her friend Margaret was her dearest friend until she got married (Margaret also married a soldier after World War II), how she was quarantined for six weeks after her brother contracted scarlet fever, how she enjoyed listening to the radio and reading library books, and how women worked hard during the war while men were drafted and chose to stay in the workforce afterward (then she writes, “I’m getting off my subject”).
Deftly, she weaved through the names of her children and grandchildren, her siblings and their children. Even in a diary intended for her memories, Mammaw generously shared the page with those in her family, those she deeply loved and adored. It is this ancestry of love and compassion that I hope to inspire as I travel my own journey. At the end of my visits throughout adulthood, Mammaw would always say, “Come by and see me.” Now, for just a brief few pages, I return to her whose love is omnipresent in the dark times and, in my memories, reminds me of a larger Love that deepens with time.
PPT: Can you tell me about it’s origin story?
Crystal: I bought the journal several years ago and gave it to my grandmother (with a pack of pens) to fill out. After she passed away in 2021, my mother found it among her items and asked if I wanted it back. ABSOLUTELY! She had filled out some of it during her lifetime with some of her history growing up in West Virginia.
PPT: What makes this item special to you? Why is it memorable?
Crystal: The outside of the journal is a beautiful teal color and reminds us of the power of love. It isn’t part of a collection, but it is one of my most treasured possessions because my grandmother wrote in it, in her own hand. It is my grandmother’s history in her own words, complete with her sense of humor and her love of life. I cherish it so much because it contains the history that is most important to her and the legacy she wanted to leave for her grandchildren.
PPT: Tell me about a favorite memory attached to this item.
Crystal: It reminds me of my grandmother’s warmth and compassion, her sense of humor, her integrity, her determination. I glance at it, and it echoes her love and devotion to her family.
PPT: Are there lessons you learned from this “pretty”?
Crystal: I learned more about my grandmother’s upbringing, resilience, and humor.
I cherish it so much because it contains the history that is most important to her and the legacy she wanted to leave for her grandchildren.
