Early yesterday, my last surviving grandparent became an ancestor.
I’m finding it difficult to put words to this, not because of grief, but because she held on for so long and her death is somewhat of a relief. At least to me; my intuition senses that death for her meant being set free. We shared a room on every vacation together and one night during my college years, we stayed up late talking about death and how she wasn’t afraid when it was her time to go.
Her name was Katherine, but I knew her as Grandmama (and she absolutely relished the regal-ness of that name). As a kid, she was my favorite grandparent to spend time with, and even after my parents divorced, my mom made sure my dad’s mom remained in our life. Maybe it was really because they needed each other, two women who found themselves walking a similar path – they had a truly special bond. For a week every summer, my mom, sister and I vacationed with Grandmama on an East Coast beach, and laughed almost the entire time. She never hid the part of herself that could say the most irreverent things.
There are days I wish that I had inherited that ability from her – her wit and humor were some of the parts of her that thrilled me the most. Taking vacations with her started during a dark time of my childhood and I remember her humor adding light and levity, making it feel like the world wasn’t all grief and gloom. Indulgence was the theme no matter where we went; “it’s vacation!” was her refrain whether it was eating an extra piece of chocolate or buying something special for yourself. In the years after my parents split up, I looked forward to seeing her because it felt like being connected to the parts of my family that I loved, that were fun and frivolous. Speaking the humor and absurdity in any situation was both her gift and her way of surviving her own traumas, and maybe the part of her humorous spirit I did get was the freedom and the joy of laughter in almost any situation.
Although I didn’t inherit her humor exactly, she’s likely the one I have to thank for having a love of style, art, and creativity. There is a family story about her wearing a satin nightgown to a cocktail party because she thought the nightgown was as elegant as a formal dress (long, long before it was ever a fashion trend) – a symbol of the ways she could find things beautiful that other people would never consider. A framed photo of a field of bluebonnets that she took one spring in Texas hangs on a wall of my mom’s house, which makes me suspect that she also wondered at flowers. Collecting luxuries – unique jewelry, silver spoons, fine china, crystal bowls, art – and decorating her space were innate parts of who she was. And sparkly things – how we share a fascination with them. She could spend hours pouring over jewelry, and even when her arthritis kept her from walking or standing for long periods of time, she didn’t feel it at all if she was trying on rings. Our styles might not have aligned – her’s informed by a love of her past and mine much more modern – but she had style and knew what she liked…and she never deprived herself of it. How lucky to have witnessed a woman who did not hide her desires and have her as part of my lineage.
Finding the ways that we are timelessly connected – the ways that she lives on because of what she gave to me simply by being herself, being present in my life, and by sharing genetics – is the gift of being a part of her. I have a few physical objects that will always be treasured because they came from her, but getting to hold the gifts of her spirit in mine is what makes me feel even connected to her even though she’s physically gone.
I have always felt gratitude at being related to my grandmother, but for most of my life it felt like reverence and awe, the kind a child has for an elder but also something more. That she could always show up as herself, that she could make anything funny, that she seemed to exist outside of the rules that were part of the fabric of my childhood. She defied the expectations of what an adult was supposed to be, for better or worse, while being deeply curious and vibrant. That’s the spirit of hers that I will hold on to forever, now that she’s gone.