I didn’t ask the scary questions, though I might not have gotten answers. I still didn’t want to know the answers. Even now as an adult there are questions I’m not sure I want responses to because I’m still attached to those tinted memories. My naiveté cushions them a bit. But where is the harm in keeping my childhood memories just that, my childhood memories? The six year old version of me stays untainted, unaware, climbing trees and searching for railroad spikes. I might know now what was really going on but that little girl doesn’t and she won’t know, not for another decade. So I keep her there, frozen in time. The adult me can take the weight of reality but only if she stays in the past and enjoying all of her adventures. My childhood wasn’t always the greatest but if children are anything, they’re resilient. The innocence of a child plays into that because don’t fully realize the gravity of the situation. So my memories will remain in the past and I’ll remember them with …show more content…
She would spend a Christmas in Montana with my Aunt Maria and Uncle Kevin after having Thanksgiving with my family in Oregon. A week or two in Idaho with Uncle Jim then back to California where my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Joe waited. While she traveled from family to family my grandmother had a set of black suitcases. Two larger cases and a carry on. They held her clothes and the occasional present for our family. For as long as I can remember my grandmother crocheted whenever she had a free moment. She crafted Afghans and blankets for each of her grandchildren. When I was seven years old she made my siblings and me blankets. Mine was blue with a little white sheep pattern and red yarn ties that held the layers of blanket together (a quilting technique). I still have that blanket; although, it now shows years of wear. And my sister’s looks even worse. Mine has a worn tear along one edge and other spots look like they could go at any moment.
My Grandma Ida was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s seven years before it would take her life. Remembering her descent into dementia, I thought it happened all at once but it didn’t. It was over years, one day she would be fine the next screaming that we couldn’t know her. Her travels and visits dwindled to a stationary life in California with my Aunt Margaret. Again my parents went easy on us, “Grandma’s doing fine,