Here is a line from a poem that I think was written by Lillian Morrison, but I can't find the book and google was no help:
}Golden haired Apollo, standing at the edge of strife
so magnificently unprepared
for the long, long littleness of life."
Life is, indeed, composed of long, long littleness, the little habits and structures of each day, the little memories, like vignettes that visit your mind, the little chores that maintain order in your environment, and in your body.
There are those chapter heading events that come, perhaps each decade on average, obviously more quickly in youth than in age, but as the body is composed of cells, life is composed of an atomic kind of littleness, like the stitches in the quilts my grandmother made.
The littleness in my grandmother Mabel's life had simultaneously, an infinite quality, a limitlessness of the moment that was profound. There was the salt breeze blowing under the white sheer curtain, the delicate and faded floral print on the wallpaper, the cheerful chintz chair with the snug little footstool, almost like a dog at your feet. There was the quiet. The only sound was the traffic two stories down on Asbury Avenue, or the seldom and remarkable clanging of the fire gong across the street.
My grandmothers, both of them, were young women in their twenties in the time of the upheaval over Women's Struggle for the right to vote. Surely they read the newspapers, in between laundry loads and kitchen chores, vacuuming, ironing, tending to whatever baby or toddler was crying or crawling. I imagine my grandmother Mabel took heed of the outside world later in life, she became an active member of the Democratic Women's League in Ocean City.
Sadly, neither I, nor my closest cousin, Patty, and the other loving acolyte of my grandmother Mabel, never asked her any questions.
Children are by nature very self centered. I had little or no involvement with history in my childhood, outside of my daily involvement with World War II due to my father's obsession with it, having been a surviving veteran of it. That was my first introduction to real history, the human story of history. Never, however did my grandmother's speak of history of any kind, personal or political. Both of my grandmothers tended to be quiet, more observers and action figures than speakers. They bustled about bringing out food, taking away plates, cleaning up, but not very often to sit and tell stories. But they listened to me all the time.
My mother gave me advice, my father gave me advice, but my grandmothers were more reflective, sometimes I felt almost as though they were studying me. They often gave me undivided attention with real interest and enjoyment in it. And for the grandmothers, I wasn't afraid to be an entertaining child, something I never did elsewhere.
Once in a graduate student event in which I participated, at the university, I made a slightly outside postcard out of a xerox project.
I used a small black and white passport photo and made a xerox copy. Then I made a copy of the copy. Each copy lost ink dots and began to fade. It took 64 reproductions to fade to blank white space. That series I reduced to postcard size with the lettering across it, "How long before you disappear." It is one of my all time favorite pieces. I wish I had a copy of it.
The long littleness of life is like those dots per inch of ink in a xerox copy, or the stitches in a quilt, or the tip tap of the computer keys as I type these words which are also like the long long littleness of life. That long littleness is simultaneously infinite like the universe.
Watch THE VOTE, a pubs documentary, a new one! It brought to life the times of my grandmothers for me and it is another wonderful way to celebrate the 100th anniversary of American Women winning the right to vote. It is channel 12 but you can also get it by going to www.pbs.org, and it is under SHOWS.
Happy Trails,
Jo Ann
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