Greatness

{faith, hope, love}

Learning from Grandma Moses

grandma_moses

{Joy Ride, 1953, Private collection, © 2001, Grandma Moses Properties, New York}

She was born Anna Mary Robertson September 7, 1860 in Greenwich, New York. The third of ten children, she attended school in the summer months and helped work the family farm as soon as able. At twelve she began working at homes near the farm–a ‘hired girl’–to earn her keep. Despite the fact her parents were not wealthy my material means, they instilled a love of the finer things–art and history, community and conversation.

Perhaps those were the very things that drew in her future husband. Thomas Moses, a farmer worker, took Anna’s hand in marriage and together they settled on a farm. Much like her parents, they brought ten children into the world.  They worked, side-by-side–Anna using her artistic skills to make their house a home.

All in all, she lived through one civil war, two world wars, and a great depression. She buried five babies and her husband. She had to give up work on the farm and her love of embroidery due age and a touch of the Arthr.

But give up, she did not.

With each change, each setback, she kept moving forward. When one door closed, she looked for another. So that, in her late seventies, with embroidery no longer an option, she set her hand to painting. She paid no mind to her age or the fact she hadn’t any professional training. She didn’t look to trends or consult focus groups. She certainly didn’t focus on despair. She simply tried. She began copying works she admired; then she began trying her own–happy memories from a simpler time. She gave her paintings to friends and family; she displayed them in the window of a family store . . . where she happened to be discovered.

And that’s how a country girl grew up to become “Grandma Moses” to people the whole world through. She produced well over a 1,000 works of art which graced greeting cards, calendars–even Gimbel’s Department Store. She appeared on the covers of Time and Life magazines, served the subject of numerous interviews and television shows, and earned honorary doctoral degrees. President Truman invited her to tea, entertained her with a private piano concert, and awarded her the Women’s National Press Club Award for outstanding accomplishment in art.

Not bad for the last quarter of her life.

Like any grandmother worth her salt, she continues to teach us to this day, despite the fact she’s been gone for decades. You see, another year will soon be behind us. Whether 2012 served well or wretched, it matters not. What does matter, is how we head into the new year . . .

Those who serve

Yesterday, we celebrated our veterans. It was a day marked by parades and ceremonies, handshakes and salutes. For most of us (myself included), it was little more than a post on Facebook.

My grandfather was Army, my dad, National Guard; I have a cousin who served in the Navy and one who’s a Marine. I’ve worked alongside men and women from all branches of the military. A couple of the finest gentlemen I know are WWII veterans. They are but a speck in a sea of names and faces . . .

Boys who would become old beyond their years.

Black men and Japanese men who gave all to a country who gave nothing in return.

Men and women who endured physical and emotional strains of training.

Then stood faithful–whether pushing paper or fighting on the front lines.

They missed holidays and birthdays, BBQs and football games.

They gave their all for their country, for an affordable education, for a mission–or simply because their number was drawn.

Whatever the reason, they looked fear and death and destruction in the eye–so we might not have to.

How do we go about saying, thank you? One day of festivity does not seem quite enough.

So yes, as another 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month passes us by, let’s continue offering our gratitude to our veterans. Let’s find ways to take care of the families they leave behind; let’s support our troops upon their return. Let’s understand the issues, get involved, and strive to right wrongs–only then will we begin to offer a fitting tribute to all the sacrifices made.

From young to old, and back again

Today is Respect for the Aged Day in Japan. I’m somewhat of an expert on Ancient relatives, myself. Not long after my grandfather died, my grandmother was ready to call it a day, so into a “home” she went–the first, of three. That means I’m inching my way toward two decades worth of elderly folks. And I’ll tell you now, retirement communities are nothing, if not fraught with peril. You never know when you’ll be rear ended by a wayward walker, or when you’ll need to dive into a fake ficus to avoid being run over by an electric wheelchair, driven by a crazed woman with purple hair. One must retain a constant state of vigilance. After all, you could be minding your own business when a fight erupts at the salad bar, or you find yourself the center of a ‘whispered’ conversation the likes of this:

Old Person 1: Have you seen that woman? She’s put on so much weight; she’s HUGE!

Old Person 2: Well, she says she doesn’t eat sweets.

Old Person 3: Well, she’s eating something–because she’s HUGE!

One spout too many, a few too many times waiting for one hundred years, and you might be tempted to miss the good stuff.

Lucky for me, I’ve seen that, too.

At the current ‘home,’ my grandma has taken up with a group of women we adore. At eighty-two years of age, my grandma is the baby; the others clock in at least a decade older. Phoebe, Zoe (Evelyn), Agnes, Lois, Dona, and Donna–the old girls. They’re admired and learned, with just enough spunk to keep things fun; they’re just the type of people we’d choose as friends.

Over the last few years, during meals and concerts, teas and conversations, they’ve taught us a thing or two about life:

Wear the shoes . . .

{Maddy Corduroy Pumps By Chelsea Crew, Ruche}

Dance, while you can . . .

{Vintage Dancers from SolStock}

Learn something new, every day . . .

{Live and Learn 8×10 Typographic Prints by InkrPrints}

Laugh, as much and as often as you can . . .

{source unknown}

In other words, enjoy it.

When you’re young, it’s always something–you’re too fat or haven’t enough curves, your pores are too big, your lips too small, you’re too hurried, there’s not a thing to do. But the old girls are quick to remind: just enjoy it–enjoy the mere fact that you’re young (which, I might add, appears to be anything under the age of eighty).

So yes, the aged can teach us a thing or two. Why? Because they’ve been there. They’ve been through financial crises and mid-life crises; they’ve been through wars and rumors of wars; they’ve lived in freedom and had most of it taken away. Yet they continue on, as best they can.

In my book, that’s a pretty good reason to offer a little respect.

Just for one day

{David Bowie Inspired, Heroes Lyric Poster by Concepcion Studios}

Let’s do it.

Just for one day, let’s do what we can; let’s:

Keep moving forward . . . try a little harder . . . be a little more present.

Have a little more patience . . . a little more consideration . . . a little more generosity.

Offer a word of encouragement . . . bring a meal to a sick friend . . . support a worthy cause.

Live, and laugh, and love with all our might.

Just for one day, let’s do what we can to make the world a better place.

For if we determine to do that, just for one day–and then, just for the next–our very lives will be a memorial to all the heroes who have risen from the ashes.

Soaring past barriers

She was born the fifth child of ten, in Albany, Georgia, 1923.

As she grew, running fast, jumping high, they were as natural as the rising sun–yet according to some, the color of her skin was not. You see, being black in the segregated south, barred her from organized sports, as well as the use of the training facilities.

Her parents suggested more lady-like pursuits–perhaps something that might offer a chance at success. A teacher preached the opposite, encouraging the pursuit of her dream; and an aunt helped her stand her ground.

And stand her ground, she did. She trained as she could–running barefoot through fields, sprinting down dirt lanes, jumping over ropes or rags pulled tight with sticks. She pushed herself to practice hours upon hours to improve her time, improve her jumps–dedication that led to a scholarship to Tuskegee Preparatory School, at the age of sixteen. While attending Tuskegee, she competed in the Women’s National Championships–breaking both the collegiate and National high jump records. She did it all barefoot.

From Tuskegee to Albany State College, all in all she held 25 national titles, from the 50 yard dash to basketball.

Not even a back injury could keep her from qualifying for the 1948 Olympic Games in London. Like always, she didn’t workout the day before competition, much to the dismay of her coach. You’ll end up just like the others, at the bottom. You’ll never make it . . .

Not only did she make it, but Alice Coachman became the first African American to win a gold medal–the only female American to win a medal of any kind in London 1948.

Though she retired from sports at the age of twenty-five, she continued to help other athletes–teaching and encouraging young athletes, directing and inspiring Olympic veterans. In her lifetime she’s been named to five all-American teams, inducted into eight Halls of Fame, and named one of the 100 greatest ever Olympic athletes.

Not bad for someone deemed as not having a chance.

As Alice Coachman proves, it is possible to soar past barriers, straight to our dreams–but it takes work, dedication, and faith . . . maybe even a lucky lemon or two . . .

 

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Martha Ward Plowden, Olympic Black Women (Gretna, La.: Pelican, 1996).

Nellie Gordon Roulhac, Jumping over the Moon: A Biography of Alice Coachman Davis (Philadelphia: privately printed, 1993).