After working with James Franco’s grandmother this week, I couldn’t help but think of my own. She passed this March almost making it to triple digits, but 98 years old isn’t to shabby.
When she was born women couldn’t vote and America had yet to even enter World War I
Prohibition wouldn’t start until she was 6 and wouldn’t end until she was 19.
In her 20s she got to enjoy a Great Depression followed by another world war.
When she was 13 Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic, by the time she was 45 we landed on the moon.
She made a living as a Glass Blower. Her house was lined with hundreds of delicate pieces of glass art that I would spend hours looking at, too afraid to touch for fear of breaking. Her craft took her to fairs all over the country and she taught in Mexico for awhile. This picture is her around 19 years old working at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1933.
I never knew my Grandfather he died before I was born and when my mom was just a 14, making my grandma a bad ass single mother era of “Mad Men”. She raised two daughters, six grandchildren and nine great grandchildren. She never lectured any of us. She offered a loving positive environment, not just to our family but to everyone she met. Her sweetness and positivity was infectious. There was no way you could spend time with her without feeling uplifted.
As with any loss, I wish I had appreciated my time with her more. I regret that I never thought to record her stories until it was too late and she was not able to recall them as well as she once had.
If you still have your grandparents, next time you see them ask about their life. You might find out more than you expected.
I miss her stories now and I miss being able to share mine with her.