Johnathan, I may have sent this one about my blind grandmother before. If so, forgive me. It has gotten a lot of traction out there in the ethers!
ROXIE, MY BLIND GRANDMOTHER
In a world veiled in darkness, my grandmother found her light in the tactile whispers of point print. At three months old, her eyes may have betrayed her, but her spirit was as sighted as ever. The Bible and books that filled her days were not defined by their heft or the thickness of their pages, but by the life they breathed into her through their raised dots-a language of touch, a precursor of Braille.
Her slate and stylus were her instruments of correspondence, a bridge between her world and that of her blind friends. With each letter she crafted, her thoughts were etched into existence, her words a tangible presence in a world she could only hear and feel.
Her books would rest on her lap, a foundation of knowledge and faith as solid as the earth itself. Her fingers, nimble and sure, would dance across the pages, a ballet of sensation and understanding. The dots beneath her touch would rise to meet her, eager to share their secrets and stories.
I remember the sound of her voice, rich and warm, as she read aloud. It was a melody that resonated with wisdom and resilience, a testimony to her ability to navigate a world that was not built for her. Her dexterity was a marvel, her fingers moving with a grace that belied their age.
Those books, the stylus, the slate-they were more than mere objects. They are the legacy of a woman who refused to be defined by her limitations, and who embraced the world with hands wide open. They are cherished not only for what they are but for what they represent: the indomitable will of my grandmother who saw more clearly with her heart than most do with their eyes.
Roxie, a name that echoed within the walls of our home, was a beacon of resilience and grace. Blindness never dimmed her spirit; it only sharpened her other senses, transforming other daily chores into a display of her remarkable capabilities. Roxie, her domain was the heart of our household kitchen- where she reigned with gentle authority and an unerring touch.
As our dishwasher, Roxie's fingers were like whispers over porcelain, detecting and erasing the slightest imperfection. Plates and utensils gleamed under her meticulous care; each one emerging from her hands as if they were new. It was a dance of fingertips and water, a silent symphony played out on ceramic and metal.
The snapping of green beans was a ritual she performed with a surgeon's precision. Each bean was a conversation between her fingers and the vegetable's hidden strings. She would hold the snapped pieces to her cheek, a gesture as tender as a mother's touch, ensuring not a single string remained to mar the perfection of her task.
Shelling peas was a task she cherished, a moment of peace in the rhythm of the day. The pea pods would yield to her deft fingers, splitting open to reveal their hidden treasures. The bowl would fill, each pea a testament to her skill, and the sound of the shells parting was a familiar refrain in the melody of our family life.
Grandma Roxie, as we fondly called her, was more than just a member of our family. She was a symbol of unwavering strength, a reminder that the human spirit can adapt and thrive. Her legacy is etched not only in the well-worn pages of her point print books but in the very essence of our home. She is unforgettable, a cherished memory that continues to inspire and guide us.
This is proudly my memories of a grand blind lady who greatly influenced my life and character.
I bundled up today for a walk. Five degrees out with north wind. The BEST! Thanks for embracing winter's stark reality. And the package arrived today! Yay!
I love the Potter Poems! Thank you for sharing.
Johnathan, I may have sent this one about my blind grandmother before. If so, forgive me. It has gotten a lot of traction out there in the ethers!
ROXIE, MY BLIND GRANDMOTHER
In a world veiled in darkness, my grandmother found her light in the tactile whispers of point print. At three months old, her eyes may have betrayed her, but her spirit was as sighted as ever. The Bible and books that filled her days were not defined by their heft or the thickness of their pages, but by the life they breathed into her through their raised dots-a language of touch, a precursor of Braille.
Her slate and stylus were her instruments of correspondence, a bridge between her world and that of her blind friends. With each letter she crafted, her thoughts were etched into existence, her words a tangible presence in a world she could only hear and feel.
Her books would rest on her lap, a foundation of knowledge and faith as solid as the earth itself. Her fingers, nimble and sure, would dance across the pages, a ballet of sensation and understanding. The dots beneath her touch would rise to meet her, eager to share their secrets and stories.
I remember the sound of her voice, rich and warm, as she read aloud. It was a melody that resonated with wisdom and resilience, a testimony to her ability to navigate a world that was not built for her. Her dexterity was a marvel, her fingers moving with a grace that belied their age.
Those books, the stylus, the slate-they were more than mere objects. They are the legacy of a woman who refused to be defined by her limitations, and who embraced the world with hands wide open. They are cherished not only for what they are but for what they represent: the indomitable will of my grandmother who saw more clearly with her heart than most do with their eyes.
Roxie, a name that echoed within the walls of our home, was a beacon of resilience and grace. Blindness never dimmed her spirit; it only sharpened her other senses, transforming other daily chores into a display of her remarkable capabilities. Roxie, her domain was the heart of our household kitchen- where she reigned with gentle authority and an unerring touch.
As our dishwasher, Roxie's fingers were like whispers over porcelain, detecting and erasing the slightest imperfection. Plates and utensils gleamed under her meticulous care; each one emerging from her hands as if they were new. It was a dance of fingertips and water, a silent symphony played out on ceramic and metal.
The snapping of green beans was a ritual she performed with a surgeon's precision. Each bean was a conversation between her fingers and the vegetable's hidden strings. She would hold the snapped pieces to her cheek, a gesture as tender as a mother's touch, ensuring not a single string remained to mar the perfection of her task.
Shelling peas was a task she cherished, a moment of peace in the rhythm of the day. The pea pods would yield to her deft fingers, splitting open to reveal their hidden treasures. The bowl would fill, each pea a testament to her skill, and the sound of the shells parting was a familiar refrain in the melody of our family life.
Grandma Roxie, as we fondly called her, was more than just a member of our family. She was a symbol of unwavering strength, a reminder that the human spirit can adapt and thrive. Her legacy is etched not only in the well-worn pages of her point print books but in the very essence of our home. She is unforgettable, a cherished memory that continues to inspire and guide us.
This is proudly my memories of a grand blind lady who greatly influenced my life and character.
Her grandson:
peppermiller3011@gmail.com
Thanks Pepper. I love “a ballet of sensation and understanding.”
Nature has no fourth wall
Follows invisible laws
Conscious only in the unconscious
Poems like this one
Break from nature's impassivity
And gently draw out meaning
In words and pictures
Of beauty in the self-consciousness
Of life
Or nature is all fourth wall
Or no walls at all
always a new chance to breathe in the cold and see how you change it into the warmth that you exhale
Beautiful, Ann, thank you
Standing in the cold can be refreshing, it lets you know you’re alive.
That’s right, thanks Stan
Beautiful words and photograph. Happy day! The USPS says I have mail from you today.
Thank you, Monica — hurray for the USPS!
How is grim so beautiful?
It can be but then hopefully the beauty cancels out the grimness
There’s something to be said (quite a lot actually) for contrast.
"the absence of the sunrise" - very moving
Thank you, Douglas
I bundled up today for a walk. Five degrees out with north wind. The BEST! Thanks for embracing winter's stark reality. And the package arrived today! Yay!
Glad to hear the mail prevailed! Thanks Mary
P.S. the first poem made me cry. Thank you. 😌
Ah! Your tears are music to my ears. Thanks again, Mary
So haunting and so beautiful, Jonathan! Shivering.
Winter can be beautiful, stark, imperfect, and more. Your poem captures these contrasts perfectly.