The Coolest Grammy in the World

I was thinking last night about "kisses from heaven"–those special times you know Jesus had done something just to show His great love for you. I’m putting together a journal of many of those kisses…..most of which I can’t post here–too special, too personal! sorry!

This is a story of the woman I called "Thoroughly Modern Milly", my grammy who I lost at the age of 100 in 2003.

I had the coolest grammy in the world. I adored her always. I spent many, many weekends at her house growing up, and always loved being there. She was fun—she was hip—she was cool. She wore shorts and flashy clothes. She had a great wardrobe, and let us play in her big closet and wear anything we wanted. It was a Narnia type closet, and you never knew what treasures you would find as you made her way to the back.. I particularly remember a long pink taffeta robe, belted with a very full skirt. When I wore it, it dragged the ground behind me in a train and made a swishing noise when I walked. I wore it with the white sandals with brightly colored rhinestones. She had plastic pop-it beads, and even let my cousin and me wear her perfume. She kept coloring books and a few toys for us, but her things were the most fun. She had an electric typewriter—what a machine! She had cable TV and a window air conditioner—it was hot at our own house and we only got three channels. She took us to the park and packed picnic lunches in a big basket. She took me and my cousins to the drive-in theatre. She had a fascinating attic we explored, part of an equally fascinating house and yard. I was shocked years later when I had the opportunity to tour it as an adult and found it was so small. I remembered it HUGE! She moved out of that house when I was 14, the home she had spent the entire 47 years of her married life in, moving the year after her husband died into an apartment she occupied for another 30 years. I spent the night with her at the apartment only a little, for I was growing up and changing. But I loved Grammy always. No one could be grumpy when Grammy was around—she wouldn’t allow it. She carried such a happy atmosphere everywhere she went. When I was a teenager and a young adult, and sometimes feeling disapproval from the rest of the family, I always knew I could feel loved and accepted by Grammy.

I was stunned to realize that Grammy had been 57 when I was born—I thought of her as a very young grandmother, when in fact she was older than most. But youth is an attitude, not always an age. Grammy was always trendy. I have pictures of her as a flapper in the roaring twenties, standing in knickers with a headband, hands on her hips leaning on an old Model A Ford. She didn’t much care for "old people", even when she was one. She was disgusted at having to move into a nursing home at age 95—"I don’t want to eat that old people food!" she told me. When I asked her what she wanted to eat, she said "pizza and tacos!" I would frequently take her Taco Bell, and she would be delighted to skip the lunchroom that day.

When her wealthy older sister was giving up her home, my grammy spented weeks helping her sort her possessions. She called me one night and said, "You’ll never guess what Eva wanted to give you—those old crystal chandeliers she had in the dining room. I told her you wouldn’t want those old things." "Yes, I would, Grammy! You go back tomorrow and tell her I’d be delighted to have them!" I told her pointedly. She called me back the next day. "Well, Eva had already given those chandeliers to someone else. But you’ll never guess what I got you!! A blender!" That was Grammy. Out with the old, and in with the new. I gave the blender to my sister.

Her given name was Milly, and her sister’s Eva. But when they were teenagers, they went to the courthouse and had their names legally changed. Eva became Evelyn, and Milly became Mildred Irene, because those names sounded "more sophisticated." Grammy HATED the name Mildred all her adult life, and regretted having changed it–why she never changed it back is a mystery. She insisted everyone call her Milly, and would grimace when a nurse in the hospital or someone else would call her Mildred.

She was a faithful babysitter to my boys. She was almost 80 when my firstborn arrived, and loved to have him whenever I could bring him. She watched the second one as well, and often. The boys loved their Grammy too. By the time the last one arrived, however, she was 92, and beginning to be frail. I wouldn’t leave him with her, even though she begged me to. Every year we would get together to make candy at Christmas—and always peanut butter balls. Those are hard to stir together, but I remember how Grammy would put her whole body into it. And I remember the Christmas she just didn’t have the strength, and how it broke her heart not to be able to stir the peanut butter balls. She had always worked so hard, and was now beginning to feel useless.

She resisted growing old, she fought it with everything she had. She told me many times, especially after being in the nursing home, "I never wanted to get this old." How do you respond to that? My heart hurt for her. She was becoming so frail, and for the last five years couldn’t get out of bed or out of a chair unassisted. She fell often, and I met the ambulance at the emergency room more than once. I watched her being x-rayed after a fall at the nursing home—in such pain with her hip. It was painful for me to see how much it hurt her to be turned from side to side, even gently. And I was so sad to see the actual x-rays, to be able to actually see that her bones had deteriorated to almost nothing.

The dementia was even harder to accept. I got a call once while she was still in the apartment—the manager said she was sick and needed some help. I dropped everything and drove as quick as I could to her apartment. Yes, she was sick, and confused. I had never seen that before, and had to take her to be admitted to the hospital. She got mad at me, and accused me of tricking her, and stayed angry for a long time. My grammy had never been angry with me for more than a few minutes. My beloved grammy was slowly dying, and I didn’t know how to handle it.

She hated the nursing home, at least most of the time. She was sullen and grumpy frequently, and other times told ridiculous stories, stories about her baby twin brothers, whom she had loved and been the best of friends until their deaths twenty years before. She was living some past life with them, and we weren’t much a part of that life. But visiting Grammy was so unpredictable, because sometimes she would be the old Grammy I loved so much. Those times became rarer and rarer.

When she was 98, I was planning a trip to Israel, and a couple of days before we were to leave, I went to visit her. I took my two youngest boys with me, probably 7 and 12 at the time. Grammy was asleep with her mouth wide open when we went in, and no amount of yelling or shaking her shoulder would wake her up. (Well, no amount of yelling ever would. She had become almost stone-deaf, and we kept a dry erase board handy to write her notes. That was a difficult way to hold a conversation. She would ask us why we wouldn’t just talk—she refused to acknowledge there was anything wrong with her hearing.)

The boys got spooked. "Let’s get out of here." They thought she was dead—never mind that she was snoring loudly. We finally left, and after supper I got in the bathtub and cried my eyes out, sobbing and grieving over my dear grammy. I was sure she wouldn’t be there when I got home from Israel. I was sure I’d seen her for the last time. I said my goodbyes as I cried in the tub, and later that evening I took the time to compose a letter that could be read from me at the funeral.

But she didn’t die. In fact, two years later we planned a 100 ^th birthday party for her. We invited everyone who ever knew her, even put an invitation in the local newspaper. It would be a good opportunity to see family we hadn’t seen in a while. Grammy hadn’t wanted to go to family reunions after she needed a walker, and after she was eligible to win the prize for oldest person present. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge her age or declining health.

When the big day came, we saw to it that her hair and nails were freshly done, and Mom had a pretty outfit for her to wear. And lo and behold, for that day only, it was as if God gave her back to us. There was no senility that day, no confusion. She sat up in that wheelchair and was Queen for the Day. She told jokes; she entertained her visitors, who came by the droves; she was witty, the life of the party.

One woman approached her "throne", and introduced herself. Of course Grammy couldn’t hear her, and said she didn’t know her. My cousin Sandy and I got the lady to write her name down, and Grammy recognized it instantly. She was the daughter of a very close friend. Grammy looked at her and said, "You can’t be so-and-so, you’re OLD!" We all had a good laugh—the woman was 85!

The next day, Grammy was confused and talking out of her head, but the birthday had been so special—I was thrilled with it, and thanked Jesus for another "kiss from heaven", just something special He wanted to give us.

Just a few months later, Grammy got very sick and we were told she wasn’t going to make it. She lingered a few hours and then drew her last breath. The funeral was cold—it was February. Very few people came. That was perfectly fine—they had all been there to say goodbye such a short time before. I hardly cried at all….I knew Grammy was at peace, with Jesus, and I had done my grieving for the Grammy I loved so much that evening in the bathtub two years before.

Even now I sometimes forget she’s gone, and want to tell her something, or find out how to make her special pickles or homemade chocolate sauce. I do have those recipes, as well as many others. I have her coffee table in my living room, and a picture hanging in my entryway that was hers as well. But she does live, in my memory, and I know I will see her again. What a great day that will be!

My cousin Sandy, Grammy, and me! October, 2003