Saying Goodbye to my Grandma

Earlier this month my grandma passed away. She was a tough and feisty woman, bred in the harsh Arizona desert during her formative years. She was an artist - a painter and musician - and a researcher, compiling extensive geneological history on our family. She was also a woman who provided safe harbor for many people beyond her family, and who held her own family in her hands openly, overlooking many faults and always ready to bring people back into the fold.

We were fortunate to spend several hours with her those last days in hospice. Of all my kids, the only one I brought with me was Sadie Lou, because she is a people person, because she knows how to be comforting, and because she is not rattled by things like death. She was incredibly sweet, stroking her great-grandmother's hair and telling her it was beautiful. Kissing her on the cheek and gently rubbing her arm. We read a book to my grandma, and told her the things we loved and remembered about her.

For her memorial service, I wrote a poetic sort of tribute. It follows the slide show here. My two sisters and I read it, alternating lines. And the slides - I put that together as well, with some help from a talented uncle who was able to make legible images of the old photos.

I am so proud that this woman, with all her quirks and strengths, is a part of my life and heritage.

MEMORIES OF GRANDMA

Edith was a child of the desert.

The dust settled into her soul and clung long after she made her home by the sea. The happy days of an untamed youth spent skipping over scree on the side of a mountain and diving into water holes to escape the heat - they lived brightly in her memory until her hair turned white and her hands gnarled from arthritis.

Her hands.

Knobby fingers prancing on the keys of a piano or strumming a shrill autoharp.

Hands that knew Joplin, Crouch and Gaither tunes like old family members. Hands that played gospel and ragtime with a bounce.

She was feisty,
creeping
sneaking up on you
from around the corner
behind a door
through the opening in a staircase

She would leap out with that quow! that would send you right out of your skin.

And oh, how that made her chuckle! Eyes squinting, shoulders bouncing.

Oh, how fun it was to spook the kids and the cats!

All those cats. So many, she would never give you a straight answer if you asked her how many called her home their own.

All those cats with fancy names like Garage Kitty, Siamesee,
Roof Kitty and Bob,
Stubby, Chica, Mama Kitty,
Grey, Boots, and Red.

All those cats that lounged in rafters, atop the kitchen TV, on couches, and under coffee tables.

Cats that flitted out of sight when you chanced upon them in the backyard, her jungle of potted plants and benches,

blackberry bushes and gravel,

honeysuckle and trumpet vines,

and what looked, to a grandchild, to be a bottomless pond filled with the biggest gold fish you ever saw, patchy skinned with bulging eyes. The smell of algae damp along the edge.

The smells of grandma’s house - a hint of litter box and Lysol spray, moth balls in the closets, beef stew and laundry detergent, warm bodies and old perfume.

M.A.S.H. playing on the black and white TV set in the kitchen as she made dinner, or J. Vernon McGee preaching from the radio in the garage as she ironed and folded laundry, puttering around the always warm house in her muu muu and slippers, hair wrapped up in rollers and covered with a sheer scarf.

Sipping an icy Tab. Or Coke.

Always soda.

Never water.

Her home was a treasure trove of surprises:

Whitman’s candy boxes filled with antique Matchbox cars or glittering costume jewelry,
baskets of play food,
a tin of broken crayons,
pastels for drawing,
tiger eye marbles,
dress up clothes and puzzles.
Reader’s Digest and National Geographic collections spanning years.

The gold-flecked popcorn ceilings, the art glass in the windows, the burglar bars and front gate.

And Granddad seated at his desk paying bills or reclining in a chair as Family Feud or basketball played across the screen,

or maybe some show that had stock numbers ticking across the bottom.

And 60 Minutes, always the tick-tick-ticking clock of 60 Minutes.

The air was warm eternally,

and in the summer the curtains were closed,

and in the dimness box fans roared, blowing air through wet hand towels for cooling.

Some areas never cooled, like the loft in the garage. The loft where a child or two could hide out and color, or read, or explore the little boxes and tins.

The loft where one could sit and watch grandma sweat her way through the laundry.

The humid loft that often smelled of darkroom chemicals used by a long-haired photographer uncle who showed up from time to time.

It was grandma who taught me to put ketchup on my white rice and to appreciate coconut macaroons,
peanut butter softened with honey and butter spread on Ritz crackers,
oatmeal cookies with raisins.

I never got around to liking boiled carrots and potatoes, no matter how many times she served me beef stew.

Her paintings could be seen in all directions - some hung on walls, and one was always on an easel waiting for the oil to dry,
waiting for a moment between meals
or visits with grandchildren
for the next brushstroke.

Edith, child of the desert, took us camping.
She taught us to read scat and lick rocks.
She taught us what was Fool’s Gold.
She fed the creatures until the chipmunks sat on her lap.
So many furry creatures.
Sometimes the smell of pine,
sometimes dust and sage brush.

She sketched the landscapes she saw, and later filled them in with ink or water colors. Desert scenes, wildflowers,
mushrooms and trees.

She always had something interesting to tell,
but whether it was true or not was another story.

And her, purse,
YES, her purse.
The objects that would emerge from the folds of her purse!
Paper clips and pens, rubber bands,
bobby pins, safety pins, clothes pins,
mints, candy, tissue,
handkerchief
aspirin
notepad
bandaids.

Edith lived in the past as much as the present,
communing with ancestors through old photos and stories.
A researcher to her very bones.
Genealogy took her into conversations with distant relatives all over the country
as she gathered tales and deeds,
births and deaths.

And she excelled at that, the way she excelled at making music, and excelled at painting.

But for all the talents and joys she had, her greatest gift was welcoming the stranger.
All were welcome at her table, and many came.
As a child this was part of what made her house so fun -
the cousins and musicians
the parade of family and friends
the hubbub.
It could be very exciting.

And I knew, all through me, that grandma loved me.
She loved me.
She loved me.

With a twinkle in her eye, she loved me.