November 2008

My grandmother died two weeks ago.   She was 95 years old.  Her mind was sharp and she was physically active until her final days, when she just slowed down and then died in her sleep. 

Grandmère, as we grandchildren called her, still drove a car, volunteered at a hospital and traveled all over the world.  In the past ten years or so she visited New Orleans, Louisiana, Charleston, South Carolina, Ireland, England, Paris, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, took a train through the Canadian Rockies, took cruises through the waters of Alaska and the Mississippi River, and more.   My aunt usually traveled with her, not out of a sense of duty or because Grandmère needed an escort, but because she found her mom to be a great traveling companion.  Grandmère climbed the Great Wall of China and walked along it when others were frightened, and outpaced people half her age.

The night before the funeral, I was asked to say something at the service.  At first I balked, feeling like I didn’t deserve to speak about a woman I barely knew.  As I talked to my cousins I realized that we all felt that way.  But we also talked about the times that we spent with Grandmère and I was struck by how we all carried such similar memories.  That night I realized that I could only speak of her as I knew her, and that maybe some other people who loved her would learn something they didn’t know before.  I knew I would regret it if I didn’t speak.

This is what I said:

I feel a bit unqualified to speak about my grandmother this way.  As my cousin Rebecca put it, we grandchildren didn’t really know her “as a person.”

When I talk to my cousins about Grandmère, we inevitably end up talking about ourselves – the shared memories and good times we had because of her.

There are four of us “older” grandchildren who knew Grandmère best when we were little kids and she lived in California.  Thanksgiving always meant a trip to Grandmère’s house, where we looked forward to staying up late with the grownups to listen to their political arguments more than we looked forward to eating.  That doesn’t mean our grandmother couldn’t cook.  Oh no.  Grandmère’s house also meant good food, especially breakfast.  One thing my husband will never understand about me is why in the world I love Scrapple.

Going to Grandmère’s house also meant a swimming pool with a slide, jigsaw puzzles, playing football in the street, and corn dogs at the park.  I remember the long drive from LA to Fresno, when we kids played Mad Libs and drew signs to hang out the window that said, “Honk for Grandma’s Turkey.”  It’s interesting that I can’t remember a single return drive back home.

When we grandchildren talk about Grandmère, we all seem to relish in these same wonderful memories.  We don’t talk about Grandmère much at all.  She didn’t tell us stories or spoil us with gifts.  Most of what we know about her we learned from our parents.  But she was kind to us.  She brought the family together.  She brought us together.  We older cousins are really more like siblings because of her.  Her presence and her home were a focal point for all of us as children, creating a bond between us and shaping our lives to the present day.  I suppose it’s true that we really didn’t know her “as a person,” but we knew her as the matriarch of our family…we knew her from a child’s point of view…we knew her as our grandmother.

I learned so much about my grandmother at her funeral.  My aunt spoke of their travels together, a woman from the hospital where she volunteered spoke of her positive attitude and high energy, my mom (who was not her daughter, but her daughter-in-law) spoke of Grandmère’s confidence and sense of self, a friend spoke of her great mind with its seemingly endless storehouse of facts, and others spoke of her dedication to her family and many other things which escape me at the moment, but which come to mind at random times each day.  I hope the others learned something from me too.

I’m at peace with only having known Grandmère as my grandmother now.  I won’t pine over not having spent more time with her or not getting to know her better.  She was not my peer and we never could have been buddies.  But I am profoundly glad to have witnessed this tribute to her.  It was inspirational.  As the officiate at the service said, she lived a grand life.  Now that is something to aspire to.  Thank you, Grandmère.