Five Generations of Women, and DIY

My grandmother, Momo, lived with us until I was fourteen. It was normal for me then, but now I understand what a precious privilege it was to go into her room and visit any time I wanted to. And, through it all, she taught me how to live. One of her mantras was, “If you know you can do it, do it. If you aren’t sure, try it. Never let someone else do a job you can do yourself.” We have an acronym for it now: DIY.

“Do-It-Yourself” was a way of life for most in her generation. If there was a problem to solve, a load to carry, an emergency to tend to, they rolled up their sleeves and got it done. It may not have been perfect, but it worked. They never ate a sandwich they didn’t make themselves. They washed every dish, swept every floor, and fixed their own plumbing. The women in Momo’s line inherited this independence.  We all move furniture, mow lawns, trim trees, and patch walls. Or so I thought.

Since it’s in our genes, I wasn’t surprised recently when Ella, our granddaughter, spotted a large box at Costco with a toy she wanted. She was twelve months old, and when her mom, Liz, nodded that she could have it, she reached for it. Thinking it was too big, and Ella was too little, Liz helped Ella put it in the cart. Wrong move. Ella grabbed another, because what Liz didn’t get was that Ella was going to drag that box herself, marching with toddler steps, focused on the cash registers. As a crowd gathered, silently cheering this miniature resolve that Americans so admire, Liz figured this had gone on long enough, and reached down and picked up the box. Undeterred, Ella calmly turned around and headed straight back to the display, where she retrieved an identical box and started for the front. I grabbed my phone and took a proud, grandmother photo of my DIY granddaughter.

Three months later Liz and her husband moved to Palo Alto. Since they had come from India, they had no furniture, so one of the first things they ordered was a crib for Ella. One night on the phone Liz told us that the crib had arrived, but she and Josh “absolutely could not carry it up the stairs” to their second-floor apartment. “Wow! How much did it weigh?” “EIGHTY pounds!” she moaned. “We finally gave up and hired a company to move it and assemble it.”

Ron and I just stared at each other. Eighty pounds? We, who have moved pianos and sleeper-sofas up and down basement stairs? Built rooms and laid floors?  Moved refrigerators and laid sod?

I couldn’t wait to tell Aunt Betsy, Momo’s youngest, and we had a good laugh. She reminded me of the picture I have of Ella dragging the box through Costco. Then, she summed it up.

“I guess DIY skipped a generation of women in our family. Momo would be disgusted with Liz, but it looks like Ella carries the gene!”