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Oct. 30th, 2003 03:38 pmMy grandmother's funeral (and thank you all for being sorry to hear that) took place in Geneseo, New York. There was a clan reunion at a pretty bed & breakfast farm and our dog, who had never been out of state, tried out many astonished looks. Five were aimed at the old saggy-backed horse whose name was Hail Fellow and who needed a blanket-sized kleenex. On a walk we saw a dead snake. The OCD'ed among us put together a jigsaw puzzle depicting flowers. Much fried food was eaten.
Her name was Mary; we kids always called her Granmary. She was born in San Francisco. She attended Vassar back when it gave you an accent, taught English as a literature and as a first or second language, ferreted out fantastic illegal places to swim, bore three children and gave one away. She got a taste for oriental knickknacks from a teaching visit to South Korea a few years after the war there. She attended church services 'just for the poetry,' was an iffy driver, an excellent and hyperactive cook. She tried to stay current with slang but had slips: in c. 1970 she spotted a police cruiser and warned my speeding uncle, "Cheese it, it's the fluff!" She gave my cousin his first Playboy. The same impulse to instruct led her to undress for the night outside my open door, once when I was ten and staying for a visit. Doubtless a Playboy would have made me happier but less wise. She read the New Yorker and Atlantic Monthly and fanned them out in a broken circle on her ivory coffee table. In her refrigerator there were dwarf plastic bottles of ginger ale and diet cola, in her freezer LaChoy frozen dinners. She squeezed her own orange juice. She was a lively and witty talker and she loved all of us. She had a streak of passive aggression and a mohawk of denial. I was with her for the last time in August 2002, in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. We took her to a rose garden and wheeled her along the walks. It was a very hot noon so I aimed for shades. When there was a bump I'd say "Bump!" and she'd say "Bump!" Her hair was whiter than anything in that sun. Everything seemed made of motes. There was a little bridge over a little pool. It reminded me of another garden she'd taken me to when I was a very small child. It had been shady, there were statues and bushes. I think it was connected to a cemetery. The pool in that garden was overflowing with lilypads. Granmary explained to me about lilypads and frogs. I was convinced if I looked hard enough at all of them I'd find a bright red frog and catch him for a pet. I gave up and sat on a bench with her and slept on her lap. She was ninety-six when she passed.
She was my last grandparent.
Her name was Mary; we kids always called her Granmary. She was born in San Francisco. She attended Vassar back when it gave you an accent, taught English as a literature and as a first or second language, ferreted out fantastic illegal places to swim, bore three children and gave one away. She got a taste for oriental knickknacks from a teaching visit to South Korea a few years after the war there. She attended church services 'just for the poetry,' was an iffy driver, an excellent and hyperactive cook. She tried to stay current with slang but had slips: in c. 1970 she spotted a police cruiser and warned my speeding uncle, "Cheese it, it's the fluff!" She gave my cousin his first Playboy. The same impulse to instruct led her to undress for the night outside my open door, once when I was ten and staying for a visit. Doubtless a Playboy would have made me happier but less wise. She read the New Yorker and Atlantic Monthly and fanned them out in a broken circle on her ivory coffee table. In her refrigerator there were dwarf plastic bottles of ginger ale and diet cola, in her freezer LaChoy frozen dinners. She squeezed her own orange juice. She was a lively and witty talker and she loved all of us. She had a streak of passive aggression and a mohawk of denial. I was with her for the last time in August 2002, in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. We took her to a rose garden and wheeled her along the walks. It was a very hot noon so I aimed for shades. When there was a bump I'd say "Bump!" and she'd say "Bump!" Her hair was whiter than anything in that sun. Everything seemed made of motes. There was a little bridge over a little pool. It reminded me of another garden she'd taken me to when I was a very small child. It had been shady, there were statues and bushes. I think it was connected to a cemetery. The pool in that garden was overflowing with lilypads. Granmary explained to me about lilypads and frogs. I was convinced if I looked hard enough at all of them I'd find a bright red frog and catch him for a pet. I gave up and sat on a bench with her and slept on her lap. She was ninety-six when she passed.
She was my last grandparent.
