when did Moppie became Biya?

Our grandchildren accept us for ourselves, without rebuke or effort to change us,
as no one in our entire lives has ever done, not our parents, siblings,
spouses, friends–and hardly ever our own grown children.
Ruth Goode

(the Mayor clownig around / Julie Cook / 2019)

The best-laid plans, right?

Somewhere between having kids and by the time those kids become “grown”…
the notion of having grandchildren, and becoming a grandparent, trickles
ever so sweetly into one’s thoughts.

And maybe even more so if you yourself had had a special relationship with your own grandparents.

Of course, you most certainly need to have some time in between your children leaving the nest
and their actually growing into their own before you can even allow yourself to
entertain the thought of more wee ones in your life!
But the older you get, the more those types of thoughts invade both your mind and heart.

And so all this grandparent talk came racing to the forefront of my thinking recently,
in a rather poignant way, when I was talking with a new acquaintance.
This new friend reminded me of what it means to want to be a grandparent.

This friend was recounting the day doctors had told her she had stage 4 breast cancer,
kidney cancer as well as liver cancer….giving her only 2 weeks to live.

The short-long of this story, of which was about 6 years ago or so,
and as we now see has had a truly a miraculous ending…is not what one might imagine.

When told you only have two weeks to live…I’m not certain what your first thoughts
are suppose to be.

Do you panic?
Do you get mad?
Are you resigned?
Or, in the case of my friend, do you think of what might have been?

When my own mother was told such at the age of 53, her first response was that she
really had wanted to play tennis again.
But that was pretty much my mom…

So what this new friend of mine had told me, that which was her initial thought after hearing such news,
was actually quite telling.

This was at a time in her life when her sons were still relatively young and just entering college.
The thought of them marrying and having their own children was a very distant fantasy.
Yet my friend revealed that when the doctors told her she had but weeks to live,
her first and only thought was…
“and to think, all I’ve ever wanted was to be a grandmother…”

And so yes, there is indeed something truly magical about being a grandparent.

I was fortunate in that I knew both of my grandmothers and one grandfather,
a man who I lost way too soon…when I was but only 7.

To this day, I cherish the memories I forged with each of them…
as they left important imprints on my very being.
They helped to mould me into who I am today.
But perhaps no more so than that of my grandfather as he continues to loom large and lovingly
in the memories of
the 7-year-old little girl who remains in my psyche.

And so one thing we know about grandparents is that grandparents have grandparent names.

My grandparents were known as Mimi, Nany, and Pop.

My dad was later ‘Pops’ to our son as was his brother, my uncle, to his own grandkids.

So when the time came in our own lives, when my husband and myself were to become grandparents,
the formation of names became a hot topic.

Our son wanted us to have more traditional names—names he was familiar with—those of
“grandmother and papa” since “pops” was a bit too sacred for him.

I, on the other hand, wanted to be more unique…
Names with character and staying power.
So I thought “Moppie and Poppie” sounded really cute.

Not too dorky or silly but really grandparent-like.

Our son hated both names but I stuck with my choice…
Despite the little fact that my husband constantly kept falling back on what he had heard his
own father called forever… “papa”

Still, I was determined.
I was going to be Moppie by gosh.

That was until the day I was actually called ‘Biya’ and my husband was called ‘Da’ by the one person
who the names were to be the most pertinent.

BIYA????
What the heck??
I get ‘Da’ as that is connected to what the Mayor calls her dad, DaDa—so it makes sense the older of the
dadas would be Da.
But Biya???

How and where she came up with Biya is beyond my soul.

When they call us on the phone and when she hears my voice—
it is immediately a constant shouting of BIYA, BIYA, BIYA…

My grandmother, Nany, got her name because her young nephew, my dad’s cousin, couldn’t say
‘Aunt Annie’—-so a butchered form came out as ‘nany’—and so Nany stuck.
And thus for about 70 years of her 86 year long life, she was Nany and Nany only to all of
us who knew and loved her.

But that still didn’t answer my wonderment as to how Moppie became Biya…

So when in doubt I did what we all do…I googled.

The word Biya is actually a real word.
Who knew??

It is Arabic in origin.
And it is a current word in both Pakistan and India…Sanskrit actually…
a word that means ‘goodness’, ‘courageous’ or more importantly, ‘gift to God’…

So in her 18-month-old infinite wisdom, The Mayor has deemed that I shall be of goodness and
a gift to God…

I’ll take that name in a heartbeat and I pray that I will be able to live up to this
most precious gift she’s given me.
Because she and her brother, the New Sheriff, are the best gifts my life could have ever received.

(The Maror showing a little love to her Sheriff)

(the Sheriff enjoying his first beach trip)

(the Mayor sporting shades for a day out at the beach)

Before they were Pop and Nany or Daddy and Mama….

. . .they were Paul and Anne. . .

During each of my weekly pilgrimages to and from Dad’s, it is a guarantee that I’ll be leaving Dad’s with more than what I brought. Be it some sort of item from either my childhood or his, it is all slowly tricking out of that house. Gloria seems most determined to empty that house of not merely things that were my mother’s or grandmothers, but of most things in general. It seems she is truly of the mindset less is more. . .much to Dad’s chagrin.

Last week it was the dinning room chandelier (nothing large or garish, but it was Mother’s) and two side chairs. The week before that it was 4 dinning room chairs and a clock. Before that it was a side table and a corner cabinet. I have thought that perhaps I need to open some sort of antique store as I cannot continue bringing home so much “stuff”. . .I cannot house the things that are essentially coming from 3 separate households!

This week was no different.
“You’re taking the hall painting this week right.” Gloria tells rather than asks.
“I thought that you were putting it back up after they finished painting the hall?” I ask more than state.
It’s a beautiful large early 19th century English landscape painting that was my grandmothers. It is something I’ve always loved but it has hung in our house for as long as I can remember. I couldn’t believe Dad was letting her “dispose” of it so easily as he’s always loved the paintings that Nany had procured over her long life.

It wasn’t the tables or chairs however that caught my eye this week, but rather a box of very old photographs and mementos. I’m a sucker for old pictures as they tell so many stories— long time forgotten. They are the physical and tangible evidence of the lives once lived by individuals who have long since departed this life–of those who have gone before us. They hold the key to so many mysteries and secrets and yet often create more mysteries than those that they solve. They are also visual links to our past—my past.

Once home I eagerly sat down to open the box–not knowing what wonderful treasures I’d find. It was an old box that was a precursor to a Harry and David’s holiday fruit box. Obviously it was a box of pears Nany and Pop had received years before I was even born as the post mark read 1955. Inside the box, inside this cardboard time capsule of my world before I ever was, was a treasure trove of very old photos, cards, announcements, report cards and newspaper clippings.

I don’t know why but every time I find something such as this, a box full of someone else’s lifetime, I find myself growing a bit forlorn, enveloped in a blanket of bitter sweet sadness. More questions arise and there is simply no one around any longer who can answer the growing queries. Who was this handsome young man? Whose children were these? Where is this house–does it still exist? Who’s that in the uniform and of which war was he sent? Endless questions which are now my present frustration.

Then suddenly, buried under the yellowing envelopes and fading memories, I spy a small, over exposed, little black and white image of a young couple in what appears to be a small canopied boat of sorts as the hint lies with the young man’s right hand resting on a throttle.

“What is this?” I hear myself inwardly whispering. “Nooo” I softly breathe as in disbelief. “Is this really them?” The year is around 1921, the year they married. I can see the ring on his hand so I know it is 1921 or a year or so later–no children yet, so it is before 1923—perhaps it’s from the honeymoon. They are but 25, the same age my son is today. . .a surreal image I grapple to digest.

On first glance I see a young couple, very much together. Then I begin to “study” the image. . . It must warm weather, most likely hot and muggy as the image is taken somewhere here in the deep south. He’s wearing what appears to be white pants and an unbuttoned loosely fitting white shirt as his sleeves are rolled up. He seems a bit shy and boyish but yet comfortable and in control in the “captain’s seat.”

She is shadowed, peering from behind, almost concealed in the background, something which will most certainly not be her style later in life. She looks cute and casual, almost tomboyish in the hat which covers her head. She’s wearing knickers with striped knee socks. Her round face always distinctive, which is how I quickly recognize her, yet I can’t make out the unmistakable clef of her chin–both telltale distinctive facial images–and yet there are no glasses– something they both were never without in later years.

She is holding, almost embracing him and resting her face gently against his shoulder. He is open armed as if he could or would simply turn to embrace her. She did not have a father growing up as he was killed in a distant war when she was only four—was this now the masculine figure she had longed for to fill a void in her heart that she never realized she had need of until now?

Never before have I seen, in photographs or in my memory, any sort of demonstrative display of tender affection such as this nor had I witnessed such in the time I had known them–nothing as tender as what is visible in this brief snapshot of time. I am deeply touched as I feel the warm tears filling my eyes as being privy to this seemingly intimate moment is very moving.

He died well before he should have. It was 1967 and he was but 66. She lived much longer, and sadly without him, dying in 1983 at the age of 87. I was 7 when my grandfather died so I did not know them as a couple for as long as I knew her as my grandmother alone. She had a terrible time the year following his death. We wondered if she would survive.

Ours was never a demonstrative family. We did not hug, we did not say “I love you” —that was all shown differently. Why was that I now found myself wondering as I stared at this picture. This pictures speaks differently. When did things change?

I never knew her to own a pair of pants as she was always in a dress and always impeccable. But in this picture there is a casualness that she never showed during the time I knew her–when we were kids, we were not allowed to wear bluejeans when visiting her. Prim and proper was the only way to describe her–a bastion of southern genteel society. But in this picture I see a young woman most comfortable and easy going–happy and content. Hummm. . .

In this photograph lives a time long before the long life which would lay ahead for each of them and of how it would eventually play out. This is a moment of “before.” A moment in time when they had no idea of what lay ahead–of where or of how life would take them. Nor that 92 years from the day their picture was taken that a granddaughter would come to meet them.

The photograph is tenderly sweet–they are such a young couple obviously very much in love. As this is the moment of “before” they have no way of knowing what it is I know today—I know how the whole story turned out and yet the couple in this picture has no idea. It is all so amazing–life and of its stories–the now and the thens. A single moment frozen in time, before a life time of a legacy was to take hold.

There would be two sons, two daughter-n-laws’ she outliving one of the daughter-n-laws; 6 grandchildren, two who tragically did not survive past thirty and again, she outlived; 8 great grandchildren and now 6 great great grandchildren. And so it goes. .

It totally blows my mind as I gaze at this couple who lovingly and mysteriously gaze back at me, their granddaughter. I am happy that I did know them together, albeit it briefly—I wish it had been longer, much longer–as there are now so many questions.

As we enter this week of Thanksgiving. I must give thanks for so much more than the obvious things–those tangible blessings. I want to offer thanks to Paul and Anne, who loved one another. Who had two sons, both of whom they loved as well. Who would claim me as their grandchild even though I was adopted. They claimed me as theirs, always. They did for me as much as they did for the biological grand children. I was theirs and they were mine. . .and for that, I will always be thankful.

The link this image has to my life today is as mysterious as it is joyful. I must take nothing for granted for it all is a gift, no matter how small and distant.
I leave you with the moving words and thoughts of the Trappist monk Thomas Merton. . .

“To be grateful is to recognize the Love of God in everything He has given us – and He has given us everything. Every breath we draw is a gift of His love, every moment of existence is a grace, for it brings with it immense graces from Him.
Gratitude therefore takes nothing for granted, is never unresponsive, is constantly awakening to new wonder and to praise of the goodness of God. For the grateful person knows that God is good, not by hearsay but by experience. And that is what makes all the difference.”
― Thomas Merton

Happy Anniversary Nany and Pop

Ann and Paul were married June 4, 1921. Today is their 92nd wedding anniversary. This picture shows two very happy young people who had no idea that 92 years from the very moment their picture was taken, on a honeymoon that spoke of so much great expectations and promise, that a 53 year old grandchild would share their beginning moment with the world.

I recently discovered this picture, along with a wealth of long forgotten old photographs, in a box buried deep under years of “junk” in my dad’s basement. Never having seen so many of these old pictures before, I have realized that I am full of all sorts of questions—questions I fear that will sadly go unanswered. The questions I now find myself asking my dad, questions about his parents or questions about my mom’s parents, are met with the frustration of his ever fading memory–as that is what Alzheimer’s does, it robs one of those memories. These sorts of questions never seemed to have been asked years ago when I was younger and now sadly the people who had the answers are no longer with me, all but the one with the fading memory. The curiosity of “beginnings” seems to only emerge later in life—I suppose life is funny that way.

Young Paul came to Atlanta by way of New York. His father, a doctor, moved the family south at the turn of the new century. Why I do not know. He was a student at The Georgia Institute of Technology (aka GA Tech) when he met Ann. I found a picture of him at a desk in his dorm room. As well as a couple of pictures taken of what appears to be some sort of ROTC regiment of about 50 young men, all in uniform, taken in what is today Bobby Dodd Stadium. It was taken during the height of WWI, so I imagine all young men at the time were faced with the possibility of going overseas to fight in a war they didn’t understand. Such things never seem to change…

There are images of him in his cap and gown. Images of him in uniform from high School, Georgia Military Academy–two diplomas…GMA dated 1915 and GA TECH dated 1919…and then this image, 1921. I was only 7 when he passed away. At 7, to my young mind, my Pop was bigger than life–bigger than any super hero. It is because of his bigger than life persona that images such as these, found so many years later, seem only more precious—this is where life began for my super hero, and in essence for me as well.

She came to Atlanta upon graduating from a small west Georgia woman’s college. Her family’s home was in a tiny middle Georgia town. Her father was a decorated soldier in the Spanish American War, where, as a young man, barley 30 years old, the Lt. Colonel was mortally wounded. He was brought home to Georgia where he laid in state at the Capital Rotunda, the only non politician in the history of the state of Georgia having done so, all before the long train trip “home” to LaGrange, GA where he was buried with full military honors.

His suddenly widowed young wife was left to raise 4 very small children. She moved them back to her family’s home in middle Georgia. Only 3 of the 4 children survived to adulthood. Annie attended college, something woman, particularly in the early days of the 20th century, in the deep south, simply did not do. After graduating college, Ann moved to Atlanta looking for work—–something else young woman of her day were not doing.

There is the story of the college student Paul and his cousin hopping on a street car in Atlanta. Spying an attractive very petite young lady riding alone, Paul jumps over to her seat hoping to strike up a conversation. The problem was the plug of tobacco Paul had in his mouth. Annie politely told this brazen young man that she would not speak with anyone who had a wad of tobacco in his mouth as she coyly turned her head to look out the window.

Paul, fearing he would miss his only moment of opportunity, does something that calls for desperate measures and seemed to have made perfect sense at that particularly pivotal moment, he swallowed the wad of tobacco.

It is from that precise moment that I must go alone in my understanding of “my” history for you must remember that their history is indeed my history and Dad doesn’t seem to be able to sort out any of this history of ours as his mind and memory are both turning against him, against me, and against how we came to be at this current moment in time.

Life is funny in that we all feel the important internal pull to our very beginnings–what it is, who it is, how it is that we all got to be where it is and who we are today. Pieces of important puzzles being constantly pieced together. As an adopted person, beginnings seem doubly important to me (see the post “Who in the heck is Sylvia Kay and what have you done with her” to better understand this whole adoption issue of mine and the importance of understanding who I am and how I came to be….)

Paul and Ann go on to have a seemingly wonderful life. Paul becomes a very successful business owner in Atlanta that takes him all over the country. As a couple, they rise up through Atlanta’s high society. There are the tickets to the premiere of Gone With the Wind, where they met Margaret Mitchell, Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh. There are images of Paul with then governors of Georgia and leaders of growing industry, images with his two young sons on a road trip across the south where a young Mr. Mole (aka my dad) is downing a bottle of Coke on the steps of the Louisiana State Capital. There are images of a proud man, arms wrapped around his two boys with a loving wife looking on……little would she know of her own devastation when he was taken so suddenly from her when he was barely older than I am today.

However today is not a day for looking back on the ending of a happy story but it is rather a day for looking at the beginning of one……
….So on this day, this June 4, 2013 I say happy anniversary Nany and Pop. I miss you both.