Categories > Original > Drama
Can a dream change the world?
Many things have shifted and, potentially, changed the lives of many. To be general, many doctors in the 1700s dreamt of cures, vaccines, anything to improve the medical leg of the world. Now, we are finding cures for many diseases and disorders. To quote Martin Luther King, Jr., “I have a dream,” and now there is equality between African Americans and Caucasians. Those are dreams that have changed the world, which makes me believe dreams can change the world. If I had a dream, per say, to have every state in a union or country, such as the Sudan, to have clean, running water easily accessible, then I believe that dream can come true if others have before it.
There are many objects, ideas, people in this world, most of which are ‘good’ in the sense that the objects, ideas, people wouldn’t hurt others in this world. Only a handful of those objects, ideas, people can change the world though. A handful out of that handful are dreams, dreams to change the world. I believe that dreams can, and will, change this world.
My great grandmother was a bitch sometimes. Others she was just annoying. But I still remember the times where she would take my sister and I for walks outside in her backyard forest, or bake her infamous biscuits with us. I didn’t like her toward her last years of her life, but I miss her now, once she has passed. I still tear up at the most random moments when she comes to mind, and I feel my heart being pulled from its stitches.
Perhaps my fondest memory of Grandmother is when she took Julie, Mom, and I out for a walk in her forest one afternoon. She had to have been in her late eighties then, but she still had a lot of pep in her step, and could write legibly and speak without need of clarification. She was a wizened old woman, one in touch with nature. That’s what we went on that day; a nature walk. We all walked out back, following Grandmother in her military print jacket with her walking stick, and opened the gate into her forest wonderland, with networks of paths and stories alike. Past the red gate, down the hill, and you’re lost in a seeming mirage of woodland wonder. We’d pass types of trees, old stumps, maybe an old bit of a farm or two, and they’d all have a name or a story. The walk lasted a good number of hours, but of course it was too long for a little elementary school me. Looking back on it now, I almost wish I had held out or gone back. Because, I remember, from that day on, Grandmother was changing. And it wasn’t in a good or healthy way.
Grandmother could still do many things without assistance until she hit 89 or so. That’s when a nurse was called in. Grandmother could still walk and all, it’s just that she needed helped when she bathed and what not. Mrs. Werdia wasn’t exactly in that area of expertise. She just cleaned and brightened up the household. Mrs. Werdia was, still is, a wonderful woman, as black at the night and as sweet as honey. I remember her through most of my life. She helped Grandmother cook sometimes. It wasn’t cooking though; it was memories of the old south before television and skim milk and electronics. Biscuits were a necessity that Grandmother knew how to make. She’d stand at the counter, mixing the batter, kneading the dough, rolling it out, cutting out the circles to be biscuits I’ll never remember or taste again in my life. Right by the fridge. I’d sit on her kitchen stool and watch her knead the dough, the biscuit cutter in hand. Then, she’d roll out the dough and smile at me, motioning to the dough. And I would cut out the circles until there seemed like only odd and end pieces were left, then Grandmother would take those pieces, smush them together, roll it out, and we’d start all over again. We’d have so many biscuits… And, by some wonder of the god she believed in, they all disappeared that day.
Grandmother’s handwriting went started going down about 91 or 92. That was after my birthday party at her house. It was a Sunday, I remember, I had my party on Saturday though. We had to travel back to Columbus on Sunday. That Sunday was Mother’s Day, and I think I had a cake from St. Elmo and I to go to my mom that I had decorated myself. I was quite proud of it. The icing writing was legible, and the cake overall is something I wish I could still taste without memory. I got stuffed animals that year. I was turning 9, and Grandmother 90. I remember that clearly: I used the 9 this year, and I could use the 0 for the next. I wanted it to be a tea party so bad, so we had the party midday, complete with tea and tea cakes and at the brightest room in the house at the grand dining table…
The year her handwriting went down, so did her health. The live in nurse just wasn’t working; she was fired and Grandmother lived under the care of Mrs. Werdia. Lord knows Mrs. Werdia wasn’t cut out to be around my great grandmother that much. And God bless her soul for that. Mrs. Werdia could take anything after being in that household that long. Poor Mrs. Werdia wasn’t paid enough for dealing with Grandmother’s kids… Those great aunts, good lord… I want to, not wanted to, strangle them all. Grandpa’s cool. It’s just the daughters. But, as I was saying, Mrs. Werdia came to almost live with Grandmother. She was there most of the day, cooking and cleaning and talking with Grandmother. I knew they were good friends; I could see it. It just made me sad whenever Grandmother would deny Mrs. Werdia’s help. If anyone denied Mrs. Werdia’s help they were making a wrong choice. Mrs. Werdia is a sweet old woman I’d count as my second grandmother (I had four, now I just have three), and I’d take help from her any day. Why Grandmother denied her…
I remembered something the other day. I remembered when we all went to the Waynesboro Fair one summer. I must have been young; I was still living in Columbus. But Grandmother could walk, the fair was in town, and Grandpa thought it’d be a grand idea if we all went to the fair. I remember that fair… It was hot. Sinfully hot. I was a little kid with bounds of energy, and it was hot. Ice was melting; fans were occupied. Julie and I got these spinning things there. They were so cool… Today this day, I still think they look like Sonic made them. But they’re much better quality than a Sonic toy, I mean, they take batteries. But they died, long ago… I thought nothing of it. I probably should have… I remember the fireworks. The hot summer night, the sky that wasn’t quite dark when the rockets shot off and exploded in a loud boom of sound and light. From my spot on the grass, they looked bigger than any other fireworks I had seen at the time. And I wasn’t plugging my ears like normal. I wasn’t afraid. I wanted to see these. Grandmother was in her walker, looking up at the sky with a careful concentration. She still had her mind then…
Another thing I remembered is the sewing basket and the Christmas spent at her house. The sewing basket was given to me when I was ten years old, a pink and orange and green and purple striped thing, that she wanted me to use when I started knitting and sewing and croqueting things that weren’t chains. It a very good basket at that… I use it as such. My sewing and yarn hiding in there… The hinge that’s used.
The thing I remembered about Christmas was when we stayed at Grandmother’s house. I don’t remember much from that day, all I remember is the grand tree with the multicolored lights in the boughs… And the presents. It looked like a wonderland of presents. The carpets were old then, and Julie and I were so excited that Christmas, when we were young… Other Christmases when we went back, a small, two-feet tall tree would sit on the desk in the living room, one or two cards sitting by it. I don’t remember a big Christmas at Grandmother’s house after the Christmas we were there. And then Easter… How could I forget Easter. I hid between the couch and the bookshelves and ate my jelly beans until I had to puke in the car. I was so little then, and they tasted so good… When I got older, Easter would be accompanied by cards and money. No more baskets. But no more baskets meant Julie and I could behave when we went to the Philadelphis Church Reunion. Our cousins and uncles twice removed and all those distant relatives would be there… Grandmother would be too. She loved going. She was able to talk with relatives and family members she had there, and look back on the old church and smile. I would run off, to a Rachel Ann Britton there, and marvel at how close her name was to mine. We were related, some how in some way. I still smile at that, at how I can’t date anyone from Alabama or Mississippi for fear they might be related somehow. Everyone at those reunions were relatives…
We might have been nice and proper at times in our skirts, but I remember now about the time we went through the back woods of Grandmother’s house in a truck. Those hills were steep, good lord… Julie and I would slide out of the truck’s bed and have to run to catch up to the poor thing, because Grandpa wouldn’t, couldn’t, slow down, for fear he’d fall right back down that hill. Mrs. Werdia and Granny came with us that day. Grandmother had a walker. We went up that hill and drove around through the trees a bit… It wasn’t a smart idea. Our truck died when we went through a clearing that we wanted Grandmother to see. Then the truck was stuck between a couple trees and couldn’t move. It wasn’t even our truck… Poor Mrs. Evelyn had to go to Grandmother’s house, get Grandmother’s car and come after us to tell us the battery died in the truck, that we couldn’t jump it, and that she only had enough gas to stay there a moment. So they took Grandmother back to the house and the rest of us able bodied people walked back. An hour back. Past that old farm behind Grandmother’s house and through that red gate…
I feel guilty that I didn’t get up and say anything at Grandmother’s funeral. At the time, I didn’t care. Why it’s hitting me four months later I will never know. And it may haunt me the rest of my life, knowing I should have stood up, should have said something to at least represent the great-grandkids and tell the aunts off… I wouldn’t have known what to say. It took me a week to get this out. And I have a feeling it won’t be done for a while. I love Grandmother. But why I couldn’t tell her when she was alive… I want her back. For one minute, just to tell her I love her and that I’m so sorry…
I miss you, Grandmother. I really do.
-Rachel
Many things have shifted and, potentially, changed the lives of many. To be general, many doctors in the 1700s dreamt of cures, vaccines, anything to improve the medical leg of the world. Now, we are finding cures for many diseases and disorders. To quote Martin Luther King, Jr., “I have a dream,” and now there is equality between African Americans and Caucasians. Those are dreams that have changed the world, which makes me believe dreams can change the world. If I had a dream, per say, to have every state in a union or country, such as the Sudan, to have clean, running water easily accessible, then I believe that dream can come true if others have before it.
There are many objects, ideas, people in this world, most of which are ‘good’ in the sense that the objects, ideas, people wouldn’t hurt others in this world. Only a handful of those objects, ideas, people can change the world though. A handful out of that handful are dreams, dreams to change the world. I believe that dreams can, and will, change this world.
My great grandmother was a bitch sometimes. Others she was just annoying. But I still remember the times where she would take my sister and I for walks outside in her backyard forest, or bake her infamous biscuits with us. I didn’t like her toward her last years of her life, but I miss her now, once she has passed. I still tear up at the most random moments when she comes to mind, and I feel my heart being pulled from its stitches.
Perhaps my fondest memory of Grandmother is when she took Julie, Mom, and I out for a walk in her forest one afternoon. She had to have been in her late eighties then, but she still had a lot of pep in her step, and could write legibly and speak without need of clarification. She was a wizened old woman, one in touch with nature. That’s what we went on that day; a nature walk. We all walked out back, following Grandmother in her military print jacket with her walking stick, and opened the gate into her forest wonderland, with networks of paths and stories alike. Past the red gate, down the hill, and you’re lost in a seeming mirage of woodland wonder. We’d pass types of trees, old stumps, maybe an old bit of a farm or two, and they’d all have a name or a story. The walk lasted a good number of hours, but of course it was too long for a little elementary school me. Looking back on it now, I almost wish I had held out or gone back. Because, I remember, from that day on, Grandmother was changing. And it wasn’t in a good or healthy way.
Grandmother could still do many things without assistance until she hit 89 or so. That’s when a nurse was called in. Grandmother could still walk and all, it’s just that she needed helped when she bathed and what not. Mrs. Werdia wasn’t exactly in that area of expertise. She just cleaned and brightened up the household. Mrs. Werdia was, still is, a wonderful woman, as black at the night and as sweet as honey. I remember her through most of my life. She helped Grandmother cook sometimes. It wasn’t cooking though; it was memories of the old south before television and skim milk and electronics. Biscuits were a necessity that Grandmother knew how to make. She’d stand at the counter, mixing the batter, kneading the dough, rolling it out, cutting out the circles to be biscuits I’ll never remember or taste again in my life. Right by the fridge. I’d sit on her kitchen stool and watch her knead the dough, the biscuit cutter in hand. Then, she’d roll out the dough and smile at me, motioning to the dough. And I would cut out the circles until there seemed like only odd and end pieces were left, then Grandmother would take those pieces, smush them together, roll it out, and we’d start all over again. We’d have so many biscuits… And, by some wonder of the god she believed in, they all disappeared that day.
Grandmother’s handwriting went started going down about 91 or 92. That was after my birthday party at her house. It was a Sunday, I remember, I had my party on Saturday though. We had to travel back to Columbus on Sunday. That Sunday was Mother’s Day, and I think I had a cake from St. Elmo and I to go to my mom that I had decorated myself. I was quite proud of it. The icing writing was legible, and the cake overall is something I wish I could still taste without memory. I got stuffed animals that year. I was turning 9, and Grandmother 90. I remember that clearly: I used the 9 this year, and I could use the 0 for the next. I wanted it to be a tea party so bad, so we had the party midday, complete with tea and tea cakes and at the brightest room in the house at the grand dining table…
The year her handwriting went down, so did her health. The live in nurse just wasn’t working; she was fired and Grandmother lived under the care of Mrs. Werdia. Lord knows Mrs. Werdia wasn’t cut out to be around my great grandmother that much. And God bless her soul for that. Mrs. Werdia could take anything after being in that household that long. Poor Mrs. Werdia wasn’t paid enough for dealing with Grandmother’s kids… Those great aunts, good lord… I want to, not wanted to, strangle them all. Grandpa’s cool. It’s just the daughters. But, as I was saying, Mrs. Werdia came to almost live with Grandmother. She was there most of the day, cooking and cleaning and talking with Grandmother. I knew they were good friends; I could see it. It just made me sad whenever Grandmother would deny Mrs. Werdia’s help. If anyone denied Mrs. Werdia’s help they were making a wrong choice. Mrs. Werdia is a sweet old woman I’d count as my second grandmother (I had four, now I just have three), and I’d take help from her any day. Why Grandmother denied her…
I remembered something the other day. I remembered when we all went to the Waynesboro Fair one summer. I must have been young; I was still living in Columbus. But Grandmother could walk, the fair was in town, and Grandpa thought it’d be a grand idea if we all went to the fair. I remember that fair… It was hot. Sinfully hot. I was a little kid with bounds of energy, and it was hot. Ice was melting; fans were occupied. Julie and I got these spinning things there. They were so cool… Today this day, I still think they look like Sonic made them. But they’re much better quality than a Sonic toy, I mean, they take batteries. But they died, long ago… I thought nothing of it. I probably should have… I remember the fireworks. The hot summer night, the sky that wasn’t quite dark when the rockets shot off and exploded in a loud boom of sound and light. From my spot on the grass, they looked bigger than any other fireworks I had seen at the time. And I wasn’t plugging my ears like normal. I wasn’t afraid. I wanted to see these. Grandmother was in her walker, looking up at the sky with a careful concentration. She still had her mind then…
Another thing I remembered is the sewing basket and the Christmas spent at her house. The sewing basket was given to me when I was ten years old, a pink and orange and green and purple striped thing, that she wanted me to use when I started knitting and sewing and croqueting things that weren’t chains. It a very good basket at that… I use it as such. My sewing and yarn hiding in there… The hinge that’s used.
The thing I remembered about Christmas was when we stayed at Grandmother’s house. I don’t remember much from that day, all I remember is the grand tree with the multicolored lights in the boughs… And the presents. It looked like a wonderland of presents. The carpets were old then, and Julie and I were so excited that Christmas, when we were young… Other Christmases when we went back, a small, two-feet tall tree would sit on the desk in the living room, one or two cards sitting by it. I don’t remember a big Christmas at Grandmother’s house after the Christmas we were there. And then Easter… How could I forget Easter. I hid between the couch and the bookshelves and ate my jelly beans until I had to puke in the car. I was so little then, and they tasted so good… When I got older, Easter would be accompanied by cards and money. No more baskets. But no more baskets meant Julie and I could behave when we went to the Philadelphis Church Reunion. Our cousins and uncles twice removed and all those distant relatives would be there… Grandmother would be too. She loved going. She was able to talk with relatives and family members she had there, and look back on the old church and smile. I would run off, to a Rachel Ann Britton there, and marvel at how close her name was to mine. We were related, some how in some way. I still smile at that, at how I can’t date anyone from Alabama or Mississippi for fear they might be related somehow. Everyone at those reunions were relatives…
We might have been nice and proper at times in our skirts, but I remember now about the time we went through the back woods of Grandmother’s house in a truck. Those hills were steep, good lord… Julie and I would slide out of the truck’s bed and have to run to catch up to the poor thing, because Grandpa wouldn’t, couldn’t, slow down, for fear he’d fall right back down that hill. Mrs. Werdia and Granny came with us that day. Grandmother had a walker. We went up that hill and drove around through the trees a bit… It wasn’t a smart idea. Our truck died when we went through a clearing that we wanted Grandmother to see. Then the truck was stuck between a couple trees and couldn’t move. It wasn’t even our truck… Poor Mrs. Evelyn had to go to Grandmother’s house, get Grandmother’s car and come after us to tell us the battery died in the truck, that we couldn’t jump it, and that she only had enough gas to stay there a moment. So they took Grandmother back to the house and the rest of us able bodied people walked back. An hour back. Past that old farm behind Grandmother’s house and through that red gate…
I feel guilty that I didn’t get up and say anything at Grandmother’s funeral. At the time, I didn’t care. Why it’s hitting me four months later I will never know. And it may haunt me the rest of my life, knowing I should have stood up, should have said something to at least represent the great-grandkids and tell the aunts off… I wouldn’t have known what to say. It took me a week to get this out. And I have a feeling it won’t be done for a while. I love Grandmother. But why I couldn’t tell her when she was alive… I want her back. For one minute, just to tell her I love her and that I’m so sorry…
I miss you, Grandmother. I really do.
-Rachel
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