Water from another time ~ March 2, 1989

by David Heiller


(Cynthia' note: to hear the song, click the link... it is worth your time)

link to John McCutcheon's song Water from Another Time

There’s a song I’m thinking about tonight by John McCutcheon, called Water from Another Time. It’s about grandparents, and how they pass on their knowledge and wisdom. Part of it goes:

Tattered quilt on the goose down bed

Every stitch tells a story, my grandma said

Her momma’s nightgown, Grandpa’s pants

And the dress she wore to her high school dance

Now wrapped at night in those patchwork seams,

I waltz with Grandma in my dreams

My arms, my heart, my life entwined

With water from another time

Grandma Schnick, 1984

My old bedroom is now a sickroom for Grandma. She lies in my bed, her eyes closed, mouth ajar. I have to look close to see her chest rise and fall slightly, yes, she’s breathing. I take her hand, so thin now, all knuckles and skin.

“Hi Grandma, it’s me, David.” Her hand tightens in mine, the other reaches over to join it. Her lips come together into a smile, her eyes still shut like she’s in a sweet, sweet dream.

“It’s good to see you again.” My eyes fill, a tear spills down my right cheek. Mom moves to Grandma’s side, a water glass and spoon in hand. “Would you like some water, Mom?” she asks. The voice jars me—I haven’t heard it in maybe 25 years, but it’s a voice you never forget, a mother’s voice caring for her sick child.

Grandma’s smile has gone. “Noah and Mollie didn’t come with us.” I want to say why, but I can’t. How many times did Noah sleep with Grandma, waking her in the early morning by growling under the covers like a tiger? How many times did he spread her toys on the floor upstairs and chatter away? He wouldn’t understand this new Grandma. Grandma understands.

Stella Schnick, as a young 
woman, on the family farm in 
North Dakota. (I wish that I 
could see the auburn hair!)

“Mollie lost a tooth. She got an abscess, so her top front teeth have a big gap now.” Grandma shakes her head slowly, her eyebrows lowered, a worried look and shake so familiar to a grandson who has lost teeth of his own, only now the look and shake are slow motion, a shadow of the old Grandma.

Mom comes into the room again. “Does your leg hurt you?” There’s pain in her voice. Grandma nods her head, coughs. She looks calmer somehow, with Mom there, like she knows her daughter will take care of her. Seventy years ago it was a look Mom might have given Grandma, a look of trust peering through sickness.

Sitting up with Grandma Saturday night, I tell her, “I should have brought my banjo.” Grandma nods. She was always my most faith­ful audience back when a banjo never left my side. I hum anyway, hymns, Rock of Ages, Old Rugged Cross, Beautiful Savior, Just As I Am. Grandma’s arms reach out, like she’s trying to grab hold of something. “Should I stop singing?” She shakes her head.

After she falls asleep, I stroke her gray hair, imagining it’s auburn color from a lock she showed me once. My mind adds youth and flesh and color to her face, and I wonder if Grandpa ever sat next to Grandma at night and stroked her hair and gazed at her sleeping beauty.

Sunday noon, time to leave. I didn’t think three weeks ago I would be saying goodbye again. But this time is different. A woman who gave so much, Grandma is helpless now, and I am helpless too, because the one thing Grandma wants, I cannot give, no one can give.

“We’re going now.” Her hand tightens on mine, a hard grasp that doesn’t seem possible from an arm that’s all bone. Her eyes open, turn in my direction. “David, David,” she whispers. “Don’t go.” I hold her hand until her eyes shut again.

You don’t take much, but you got to have some.

The old ways help the new ways come.

Just leave a little extra for the next in line,

Going to need a little water from another time.