Take me back

R and I were talking about something today that I thought was interesting. It started when we had the g-kids on Friday night and we went to the Friday Night Art Walk at a small shopping center near our neighborhood. The shopping center is tiny and probably about 70 or 80 years old, with lovely Spanish-style architecture decorated with painted tiles, and small, eclectic shops. We walked there because it's only a few blocks away, and we had the youngest little one in a stroller. The three-year old walked along with us, holding hands because there aren't many sidewalks in this old neighborhood and we had to walk in the streets.

We went to a friend's shop, and two different people stopped to see the little ones. Both remarked on how much the little girl looked like my daughter, her mother. It's true, she looks exactly like my daughter did at her age, which is about 16 months. The only real difference is that my granddaughter is much blonder than my daughter was.

I told them that we thought she looked like her mother too, sometimes so much so that it almost makes me cry (I have no idea why.) Sometimes I just can't stop looking at her, probably to the point that the little one thinks I'm just a bit weird.

I was thinking about that today and realized that seeing her triggers memories that we don't always get to recall. That's probably why I stare, because I'm drifting off to another generation. I was visiting with R about it today, and we thought that grandkids give us the chance to see our kids grow up again, without all of the distractions of parenting, youth, and life. He said it was almost like traveling with the ghost of Christmas past, watching what happened to us many years ago. Sometimes with the grandkids it will be something they say or a look that crosses their face. It's easy with my granddaughter because she is a constant visual reminder of my daughter. But old memories of my kids pop up nearly every time I see them.

Today at lunch R and I were sitting in an Applebee's, visiting with one another across the booth. I was looking at his hands which bear the signs of his trade...mechanic. At work he began wearing some kind of gloves to protect them a few months ago and they seem healthier and certainly miles cleaner than I ever remember them. But he still has some kind of skin problem on the index finger of his left hand which he's had for years. All of a sudden, looking at his hands, I remembered that my grandfather had a similar skin condition on his index finger, and without all of the grease under his fingernails, R's hands looked remarkably like my grandfather's. My grandfather died over 30 years ago and I haven't thought of his hands once in that time, I assure you. But the memory of my grandfather's hands hit me like a bolt. How weird!

I hope I've got enough brains cells functioning now to file away a few visuals to use in another 30 years. Maybe I should start paying more attention....