Gramma Katie drove herself to the hospital 25 years ago, probably with no intention of ever going home. She grew up in an era when going to the hospital was at least as dangerous as staying home; an act of desperation. The last time I saw her, over Christmas break, she'd been coming down with a cold. I remember talking to Dad in January sometime, and in an offhand comment, he told me that she still had the cough, it was just hanging on, making her drag a bit. I sent my love. I probably even sent her a get well card. I was a freshman in college, and she'd been a part of my life forever.
When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!
In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.
Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.
I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.
They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.
She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.
One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.
On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.
We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.
I love you, Gramma Katie!
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