"My mother is your grandmother," my mother said.
"What a coincidence," I thought.
Now I am a grandfather. My daughter is a grandmother. Grandparenthood, like parenthood, is a template that is passed down from generation to generation along with the expectations that go with it.
Today I am Grandpa Dave. Grandparents, like aunts and uncles, are known by their first names. I knew my grandparents by their last names: Granddaddy and Grandmother Bain and Grandpa and Grandma Blackburn. The Bains lived on a hilly farm in Tennessee. The Blackburns lived on a flat sandy farm on the Alabama Gulf Coast. His grandfather came from Ireland and fought in the war of 1812. Her grandfather, fifty years later, fought in the Confederate Army. (The generations were shorter on her side.) The confederate soldier was, in turn, the grandson of a revolutionary war soldier.
In 1986 my family went to Gary Indiana to visit my wife's grandmother. I snapped a five-generation picture ranging from my wife's grandmother to our granddaughter Vanessa. Vanessa reached a milestone I could barely imagine, much less achieve. I could never have appeared in the same photo as any of my great great grandparents.
When Vanessa's daughter Amalie was born, we took another five generation picture, the beginning, perhaps, of a new family tradition.
Granddaddy Bain was the undisputed boss of his family, though Grandmother was four years older. He was a retired preacher turned farmer. He had had a congregation in a Nazarene church in Nashville before moving to Houston County. I remember Granddaddy performing the marriage of his daughter, my aunt Isabelle, in front of the fireplace.
Granddad, with the help of Dad and Uncle Roy, had built his house out of stones gathered from the property. The fireplace provided the only heat. The bedrooms were cold and the bathroom was an outhouse.
The Bains home schooled their oldest son, my father, until he entered Trevecca Nazarene college in Nashville at the age of 16. There he met my mother, who was almost two years older, having gone through the regular white schools of Robertsdale Alabama. They cultivated a citified Southern accent. My mother taught us "proper" English. She told us that her parents were not highly educated, although they sent all nine of their children to at least two years of college. She said the Bains spoke their country twang out of "laziness." They were educated people who had met in college.
Grandma Blackburn was the undisputed boss of her family, though Grandpa was eight years older. She was deeply religious, having joined the recently-formed Nazarene church. She must have approved of her daughter's preacher father-in-law. Two of her daughters married Nazarene preachers. Grandpa didn't say very much; he let his wife do most of the talking. But my brother remembers that it was Grandpa who empowered him when a feisty rooster was intimidating him on the way to the outhouse. At four, Jimmy was not much bigger than the rooster. "Use this," Grandpa said, showing him a stick with a leather thong nailed to it. He whipped the bejesus out of that rooster and the rooster never bothered him again.
The Bains were not as conservative as the Blackburns. Granddaddy Bain wouldn't play cards but he enjoyed a good game of dominoes. Grandmother introduced my mother to coffee, which she enjoyed ever since. Both of my parents rebelled against their parents' fundamentalist religion. Dad showed Mother her first deck of cards. My mother sent us the the (Southern) Baptist church down the street to provide a more "liberal" influence in our religion. My father just stayed home. Eventually their marriage foundered on their contradictory role models. They couldn't both be boss.
I learned that there were certain things we could not say to our grandparents. Nothing about playing cards, for example, or Dad smoking. (Tobacco companies "patriotically" gave free cigarettes to service men in World War II. Dad was in the Navy). I came to think of my family as deeply religious, going back many generations. When I began to look deeper into my ancestry, though I loved my grandparents, it was a relief to find that they came from plain folks, neither irreligious (except one great grandfather) nor deeply religious.
My mother-in-law was the only grandparent my children have known for most of their lives, since their other grandparents lived across the country. She is now their only surviving grandparent, looking much younger than her 83 years. To family and friends, She is simply "Goochie." She calls herself "grandma" to all her descendants regardless of the number of generations between them. "How many grandmas does Amalie have?" she wondered. She named nine, counting step-ancestors and disregarding extra generations.
I am a very different grandfather from my own grandfathers, with my deeper education, my urban ways, and my faux general-American accent. My children and grandchildren agree with my religious and political views more than they rebel against them. As my oldest granddaughter, Vanessa, at 22 is more like my second-generation daughter. That makes Amalie my second-generation granddaughter. Perhaps I will adopt my mother-in-law's practice and come to think of all my children's grandchildren as simply my own.