The Secret Life of Gram

My great-grandma was an old woman. 

I don’t just mean she was along in years—which, by the time I was born, she obviously was. I mean that by all accounts, my father’s maternal grandmother had the appearance, behaviour, and general personality of an elderly person for well over half of her life, if not all of it. 

For as long as anyone could remember, Gram had had an old woman’s voice, an old woman’s hair, and an old woman’s wardrobe. She was also, to put it lightly, very “set in her ways.” Whether she was scrubbing the floor, tending her garden, or cooking bacon to what she deemed the perfect level of crispiness, she knew exactly what she was doing—and she was not open to suggestions.

This November will mark ten years since Gram passed away. A decade later, so many things still remind me of her, from rosebud chocolates and cuckoo clocks to the word veranda. She still comes up in conversation often, and to this day, my dad still smiles at the well-worn joke that his grandmother had “always” been old.

As a child, I took this joke literally. Looking back on my oldest memories of Gram—a woman in her seventies with permed hair, big glasses, and used tissues in her pockets—it’s not hard to see how this oft-repeated, tongue-in-cheek phrase went over my head.

Still, I confess that it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that Gram hadn’t actually always been the old woman I knew her to be. In truth, I didn’t have this epiphany until I was in my late teens. By this time, Gram was nearly 90. 

My grandpa, Gram’s son-in-law, acquired a used computer and scanner. Having always had an interest in photography, he decided to scan some old photos so that he could try to edit them. One of these was a photo of Gram’s mother. It was severely faded from the sun, to the point where parts of it were barely visible. Of course, there were no negatives for the old photo, and certainly no digital copies. Without some sort of intervention, the picture would soon be gone forever.

My grandpa had limited software access and even less knowledge of computers, and his amateur attempts at restoration reflected this lack of expertise. Once he was done with the black and white photograph, it had a strong bluish hue.

The restored image was grainy and far from perfect; still, the figure in the frame was much more visible than she’d been in the sun-damaged photo. Satisfied with his work, he printed the new version onto a piece of regular printer paper and showed it to Gram.

She cried. 

The photo was perfect, she said. She even insisted her mother’s dress had certainly been the exact shade of blue it was in the restored version. 

I was very familiar with Gram’s hearty laugh and gleaming dentures, and also with her crochety brand of ire. But her tears, for me, were new—as was the very idea that Gram had once had a mother of her own.

My great-grandma was nearly 90 years old. Her mother had been dead for about 40 years. And yet she clearly loved her just as she always had, just as she must have when she was a little girl.

In that moment, I realized I had only ever thought of Gram in relation to me: She was my great-grandma, my dad’s grandma, my grandma’s mom. I knew a few other sparing details about her life, like where she’d worked and when her husband had died. But seeing her emotional reaction to the photo made me realize all the things I didn’t know. 

I wish I could tell you that after having this epiphany, I made a point of getting to know Gram better. But changing the dynamic of a relationship—especially one with a 71-year age difference—is easier said than done. For the most part, I continued to treat Gram just as I always had.

Still, one fundamental thing had changed: I no longer saw Gram as just an old person. This brief window into her youth helped me realize that no matter how much or how little I knew about it, Gram had her own full, rich life. 

With this, I learned just how easy it is to forget that every person is, in fact, a person. The less “important” the person is to my own life, the easier this dismissal becomes. And yet the fact remains that every individual, from my own grandparent, to a new co-worker, to the grocery store cashier, sits at the centre of their own unique life. Each person is the protagonist of their own story—whether I read the book or not. 

As for Gram, I will always remember her as the old woman I knew and loved . . . and, also, as the little girl who missed her mother.