Becoming Blanche

Most of us have had a family member we adored. Mine was my Grandmother Blanche. She was funny and silly and made the world's best fried peach pies. When I was a little girl, she made matching dresses for me and my doll; while in my teens, she sent me bikini underwear (to my mother's horror). Yes, Blanchie definitely was a hoot — and the sweetest woman you can imagine.

Blanchie did have a few quirks. For instance, she refused to divulge her age, and lied about it convincingly and consistently. It helped that she was a beauty, and looked years younger than she was. Don't believe me? Look at this photo, taken when she was at least fifty. When she died, my mother and one of her brothers battled over Blanche's age, with my uncle insisting she was a good decade younger than Mother thought she was. Today, I know they both got it wrong. Blanchie was older than either believed, so she had the last laugh. Excellent!

Blanche's other main quirk was that she never discussed the past. Never. She never went back to her home town in middle Tennessee and never returned for a visit to any of the several places she lived before moving to Tampa, FL, in the mid-1920s. Blanche was always involved in today and planning for tomorrow. Yesterday? Piffle. (In many ways, this is an admirable trait, but it creates a serious handicap for a granddaughter who enjoys researching family history.)

Last summer, I received a gift in the form of a trip to Tennessee with my cousin, D., who grew up there. We explored towns and cities where she and Blanchie both lived (albeit in widely separated decades), and D. took me to visit family members I had never met. All of these dear relatives shared family stories and anecdotes, and I began to develop a deeper understanding of how Blanche became the woman I knew. One of the things I discovered was that there was far more sadness in her early life than I had known, and surely that was one of the reasons she never looked back. Well… that and not wanting someone to blurt out her age.

There were lovely discoveries, too. The bungalow that my grandfather, a plasterer and builder, built as a surprise wedding gift for Blanchie, is still there, including the ornamental concrete posts he created that flank the front walk and driveway. She must have loved living there. And how could you not love a man who built a house as a surprise for you?

What I brought home is an understanding of the pure sunshine and sense of wonder that were such an integral part of my amazing grandmother. Every day was an adventure, everyone she met an instant friend. Was she like that always or did she create an aura of joy to ward off sadness? I do so wish I were more like her. So far, all I can claim is a shared delight in silliness. If "becoming Blanche" is a goal, I 'd better turn up the wattage on internal sunshine.

That sounds like a good way to start every day. Count me in.