My 91-year-old grandmother is a bottomless well of singular intelligence and ever-so-slightly sour wit. When I asked her recently whether she was worried about the apparent fact that the economy-sky is falling, or has indeed fallen, she smirked at me and rolled her eyes the way a pestered teenager would do.
“Oh, please,” said Gram. She tossed her hand backward and upward, dismissing the thought. “I am an old Yankee.”
It was a short conversation, over before it began. Of course she is worried. She is worried for herself, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. But she wouldn’t dare indulge it.
One thing she’s learned after 91 years of recessions, crunches and contractions, after 91 years of inflation, deflation, stagflation and at least one Great Depression, is this: The only direction is forward. You can’t wallow in worry. Whatever the circumstance of the world around you, you have to get out of bed in the morning, get dressed and move, emphatically, forward. And you have to cook dinner.
Besides, she read “Freakonomics” a couple of years ago. She saw this thing coming.
Gram, a square-shouldered country intellectual, bends a little more deeply under the weight of arthritis every year. She still lives alone in the mountains of New Hampshire. She’s never had money, not really. A model of frugality, ability and uncommon generosity, she’s been through enough storms, economic to Nor’easter, to know that eventually all you can do is hunker down, ride it out, offer help where you can, ask for help when you need it, and hold tight to your community.
She believes that the gift of friendship is precious. She knows that happiness comes from competence and that time spent telling stories is never time wasted. She knows that nature is always beautiful. She knows that anything can happen.
And so, in good times and bad times, Gram is always prepared. She has a freezer full of pies made from berries she picked last summer. Her cupboard is stocked deep with barley, rice and pasta. She made a little extra soup last night, just in case. A cord or so of wood sits out back, waiting for the stove. A bed for a weary grandson or friend sits made and ready. And there is almost certainly a chocolate cake on hand, because you never know when a chocolate cake will be needed.
These are noteworthy traits. But Gram’s most remarkable quality is her honest appreciation of every moment she is present for. Every tick of the clock above her kitchen door is another opportunity to exercise her curiosity and learn something new; she takes no instant for granted. She exhales thankfulness for every detail of beauty that surrounds her, no matter how disguised.
It is this gratitude that feeds her pragmatic conviction: No matter what we gain or lose along the way, all will one day be just fine — and there’s no reason to lose our sense of humor in the meantime.
That, and this: If the cake’s already made, we might as well have a slice.
