Strange Times:
On the Death of a Woman and the End of a Personal Era
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The year of our lord, Two Thousand and Seven, has come to a close, along with your long and fruitful life. You only got to see a few short hours of the year to come, your old heart finally giving out sometime around 10 o'clock this morning. You were eighty-four.
Growing up, you were everything a grandmother should be. Going to your house meant being offered more food than any 12 men could eat, marveling at your enormous curio collection and always being told to buckle up on the ride home. Your house had a unique smell to it, one of warmth and antique perfume. Never in my life did I see you angry, you were a constant source of happiness and support for all of your grandchildren.
Though I called you Grandma, you weren't really related to me at all. You were my uncle's mother, married into the family, but still very much a part of it. My real, immediate family, though good at heart, were never as nurturing or kindhearted as your branch. It is through you that I came to know countless cousins, a very tightly knit group of people with questionable relations to each other. When my father died, your side of the family provided an unwavering source of support. When I was orphaned, your kin accepted me as their own. I learned from you that family isn't about blood relation, it's about people who care, those who would, without thinking, do anything for you.
A trip to your house usually meant some sort of celebration was taking place. Easter and Christmas Eve were always done in style, the entire family coming to enjoy the holiday. Hell, even the Jewish side would show up, everyone was welcome. I remember hunting easter eggs for countless years in your backyard, then helping to hide them when I got older. Christmas Eve was done in the German fashion, I always considered myself lucky to have two days of presents when the other kids I knew only had one.
For all of your life, you were a survivor. You lived through a Great Depression and a Great War. When your husband was stricken with cancer, you cared for him until his last days. You gave your ailing mother a home, then watched helplessly as both of them died the same year. When your granddaughter was stricken with cancer, you stood by her tirelessly as she battled and won. You beat mouth cancer, recovered from a broken back and then a broken ankle, something that would've laid up someone else your age for the rest of their life. Through all of this, you never lost your smiling demeanor and optimistic attitude. Even with increasing physical frailty, you let no one lift a finger for you, independent until the very end.
Your death marks the end of an era for me, a forced step into the world of adulthood. I had been standing in the doorway since the death of my father when I was 10, but this has firmly closed the door behind me. Your house, your company was the last shred of home I had. You know that painful, bursting agony in your chest? The unbearable feeling of nostalgia that comes with not having anywhere to go home to? That's where I'll be for the rest of my life. It just has to happen. It's part of the plan.
At least it was quick. You were still warm when they found you, peacefully asleep in one of your plush armchairs. You had a wonderful Christmas and saw all of your countless (15?) grandchildren and great grandchildren. You saw one of your grandsons get married in December, something no one thought would ever happen. You died With your mind intact, unlike my other grandmother. It was a quick and painless end to a long, happy life. Like it should be.
Goodnight, Gram. You'll be missed.
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Margaret Smolinski
1923-2008