I remember being fascinated by the stories my grandmother told of her early days. Horses and wagons. Moving to Kansas in a covered wagon. The tornado which destroyed their farmhouse a few months before my dad was born. The floods they endured after record cloudbursts up-river.
What kind of stories will I be able to tell my grandchildren? Or my children theirs? What could happen if we don’t take immediate steps to change the direction we’re headed? These might become the good old days of fairy tales and adventure stories.
Just imagine. . .
The silver-haired woman smoothed locks of the squirming girl child in front of her. “Hold still, Cam, dear. Two minutes. I’ll get your braids done.”
“Aw, Gran,” the child protested. “I hate when you fix my hair. It hurts.”
“The longer we wait, the more it will hurt. Shush now and sit still.” She combed the locks with knobby fingers, veins of age rising on the backs of her hands. “If only I had a comb.” The woman sighed.
“What’s a comb, Gran?”
“It’s a tool to help work out the knots in a little girl’s hair.”
“You used to have a comb, didn’t you? Years ago, when you were little?”
“I had many things, Cam.”
“We had plenty of combs and brushes for our hair. And our teeth.”
“Teeth! You combed knots out of your teeth?”
Gran laughed. “Not exactly. We brushed our teeth to keep them healthy.”
“So they wouldn’t fall out of your mouth, right?”
“You remember, child. Yes. We had a lot of things you’d never believe.”
“Like cars, to drive us wherever we wanted to go.”
“With rubber tires. And we had a whole house for every family. And plenty to eat, with appliances to fix our food.”
“What’s a ‘plance’?”
Gran laughed. “Appliance,” she pronounced the word carefully. “Appliances were tools for a house. There were refrigerators for cooling our food to keep it from spoiling, and stoves to cook our meals. We had tools that would chop our food, or mix it up so we could bake cakes and pies in our ovens.”
The old woman’s fingers worked quickly, easing tangles from the child’s hair. She traced a part down the middle of her granddaughter’s head and tossed half the tresses to the front, across Cam’s chest.
“Tell me about the water,” Cam said.
“Oh yes. There was water, running from faucets in the kitchens and bathrooms—water to wash our food—and the dishes we ate on. We had water to wash ourselves. Even our hair!”
“You washed hair?”
“My yes. There’s nothing that feels so fine as a soft and silky head of clean hair.”
“And you could wash every day?”
“Every single day. Twice if we wanted to.”
“What about the flushes?”
“Our fancy toilets? Every family had one or two in their houses—special thrones for a privy. And you could flick the handle on the tank and flush your products down with swirling water.”
“It seems so now, little Cam. It didn’t seem magical to me then. When you have so much that is right at your fingertips, you get lazy. And you take it all for granted.”
“Like it will always be there?”
“Exactly. Like it was always there and always will be. Then something happens that shakes you awake and you realize how lucky you have been.”
Gran finished the second braid, knotted the grimy ends and tied a bit of twine around it.
“Tell me the story again, Gran. Tell me about how you lost my grandpa.”
Gran removed a polished stick from her own silver hair and shook her locks until they cascaded around her shoulders. “What—has Philip given you a day off?”
Cam grinned. “He’s off somewhere with the scouts. Tell me the story again.”
“About Grandpa Stefano?”
“Ah. That story.” Gran combed her own hair, smoothed it into one long tress and twisted it to the top of her head. Holding it with one hand, she fished the polished stick from her worn skirt pocket and worked it through the twist until her hair was again secured neatly on top of her head. “I think you’ve heard this tale before. Where should I begin?”
“Where you always do.”
“Of course. It’s always best to begin at the beginning. Come with me, Cam. Let’s walk.”
Imagine the wasteland where Cam and her grandmother would walk. Then think of the huge wildfires we’ve seen each of the last two springs. Think of the erratic and unpredictable weather patterns. Think of the epidemic of earthquakes influenced by fracking procedures. We could be one, maybe two, generations from a life very different from what we now know. Our choices matter very much.
Vote, while you still can. Vote for a candidate who respects the voices of the little guys. If we can’t change our leadership, our landscape and our future could look very bleak.