In many ways, Grammy was so perfectly well-suited to be a Grammy. She never missed a birth or a birthday, she had elegant cursive handwriting, and she loved her grandchildren (and children, and great-grandchildren) dearly - and we loved her. And yet, there was so much more to Grammy than the sum of these parts.
Even as a child, I had a sense of how lucky I was for her to be my Grammy and remember even then simply wanting to be near and close to her. Whether on her lap, by her side on the couch, or even if it was me, Grammy, my mom, and sister squished together in the back seat of the car on the way to dinner: “Grammy’s small. Good thing, we have room for a fourth,” my mom would say.
Although, you did not need to be Grammy’s own flesh and blood to be the recipient of her loving and maternal ways. I always sensed that babies and young children gravitated towards her and felt comfortable in her presence.
“Hi, darling” she would say, with her honeyed Boston accent, taking my face into both her hands. “How are you sweetheart?”
Grammy’s warmth extended towards all, and I always sensed how special she was. Empathetic and non-judgemental. Graceful, gracious and eager to engage. She asked the right questions, and at just the necessary moments, inserted the good-natured or quick-witted response, to uplift the mood or add a note of levity. I always felt at ease in her presence and felt that others did too.
Grammy had a strong and abiding sense of optimism; it was not in her nature to complain, to be dour, or to be negative. Even over the last few years, she did not want to dwell on her own setbacks or hardships.
When we talked on the phone, she would very readily volley the conversation back to questions about our lives. She loved to track news of our work, of promotions, of our apartment, and (and, although she only had the candor to ask me about it upon our engagement, when she then asked immediately; in lieu of a great-grandchild, she happily asked for updates on our dog June Bug). It wasn’t that our conversations were one-sided, I think she simply preferred to focus on life’s joys, what was good, and what could be celebrated.
In more ways than one, Grammy has always figured as a powerful role model to me, as a person and as a woman. My husband Ben would sometimes even half-joking remindly me if I found myself getting overly hot-tempered or needlessly pessimistic that I would do well to be more like Grammy. “What would Grammy do,” he’d say. “Be more like Grammy.”
She loved Ben and to him she would say: “What did you do to get so lucky, to get my Emily,” with a loving twinkle in her eye.
This is who she was. Grammy was so very committed to being present in our lives. She was at childhood dance recitals, with Grandpa at visiting day weekends at camp; she was even there on the front lines, as though parking a lawn-chair at a sporting event, for my 10th birthday, when I hosted what was the fifth grade’s first official co-ed dance party. You could say she was always cheering for me, always made me feel loved and so special.
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A lifetime of milestones, and I can’t remember a single time Grammy let me down, or didn’t show up for me. So when it came time for Ben and I to consider our wedding, Ben and I quickly quickly abandoned the idea of marrying too far from home, so that Grammy could be there.
I don’t know exactly what she must have felt that day of our wedding; but even then, I know it was more than a little physically challenging for her to be there. Nevertheless, just like all those childhood occasions, she wouldn’t have missed it.
When I first saw her that day, she leaned in to embrace me:
“I made it. I’m here. I did it for you,” she said.
Incredibly, she summoned the strength that weekend to walk down the aisle without her walker, alongside Uncle Rick; and the next morning, as though buoyed by her own sense of possibility, I remember vividly as she stood up from the table at breakfast, and in a powerful gesture, pushed her walker aside as if to fling it away for good, and walked out to the ocean-side veranda.
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Grammy celebrated her 94th birthday just a few weeks ago. Though a milestone, I know this birthday was not easy for her. I asked her if there was anything she wished for and anything left she wanted to do.
Perhaps she didn’t hear me correctly, or maybe she did: But what I first heard her say was:
“I want to separate” and then, ” I’m going on a trip.”
“To LA?” I asked. “Are you flying back to LA with me?”
She nodded. Again, with a dancing twinkle in her eye.
“You are the light of my life,” she said to me, when I hugged her goodbye on that visit.
—
The spiritual realm can mean many different things, but for just a moment, I’d like to picture Grammy, elegant, wearing a stylish cream-colored satin blouse, with a smart collar, and pants in a matching color, her fingernails done in the iridescent color of opal, pearls on her earlobes, a lariat diamond pendant around her neck, holding my hand, as we walk down my California street, inhaling the sweet, heady, verdant mix of rose bushes, succulents, birds of paradise, aloe plants, hailed forward by cute little hummingbirds.
We’d walk on to the Canals, across the boardwalk, and then out towards the end of the pier. She’d squeeze my hand as we reached the edge. We’d feel the breeze on our skin, billowing the light material of the clothing across our back. Our hearts would jump with excitement and possibility.
Inhaling a deep breath of ocean air, the gentle blue sky, 72 degrees...
The sunlight would illuminate her hair, and a smile would spread across her entire face; lighting up her eyes, causing them to squint and even water a little.
“It’s marvelous,” she would say.
I feel exceedingly lucky to have visited Grammy on Friday, late in the afternoon, before she passed in the early morning on Saturday. I rested my palm on her heart. Kissed her soft temples and cheeks. And stroked her hair.
She had been in a peaceful sleep for the final few days, and I asked what she had said last before gently resting her eyes to a close.
She had made one last astute joke, and then she said:
“I’ve been so lucky. It’s been enough.”