My grandmother, Mary Earthman Weatherford, passed away at 97 years-old. I’m writing this the day before her funeral.
My grandmother, or Granmommie, as I call her, has commonly been referred to as the most gracious and ladylike of all. As a child, I thought of her as refined (not that I knew what that word meant back then), an excellent hostess, a doting grandmother, a wearer of matching skirt-suits and perfectly paired earrings, and as someone who would give extremely large tips at any type of restaurant establishment or even try to give money to an employee at a place where an employee does not typically receive tips. She was someone who always had tasty sweets in her pantry, at the ready for anyone who stopped by. And she did not like the words "nasty," "stinky," or "belly." (I disagree with her on “stinky,” but I'll give her the other two.)
I've been trying to think through my specific memories of Granmommie. Mostly fondly, I think of her in the mornings when my brother and I would spend the night at my grandparents house. She would be wearing what could be referred to as a moomoo, but that's not elegant enough. It was like a long, zip-up dress robe, usually in soft pastel colors, like being blanketed in an explosion of pillowy, Easter Sunday attire. It was chic, though. It was Granmommie. And it was always comforting to wake up and see her in it. I liked this Granmommie. The one who the rest of the world didn’t get to see. When her hair was less-coiffed, her perfectly placed lipstick was missing, and her heels were replaced with slippers that swished across the kitchen floor. But somehow she was indeed still elegant in these moments--but a cozy, comfy elegant.
I picture her pouring my brother and I the fancy brand of orange juice (the real stuff, not from concentrate, if you can imagine!) into thick, little green opaque juice glasses that made me feel so glamorous and adult.
Usually, my brother and I would sit at the two-top, tall counter in her kitchen, or sometimes we’d get to eat on the screened-in porch and watch cars and peoples’ lives pass by. She would offer us anything we could possibly want, and I always remember eating cantaloupe, and feeling so luxurious because we never had cantaloupe at my parents’ home. (We were a mainly a banana and apple kind of family.)
I think of her a little bit later in life when I was still young enough not to drive, but getting older. She would pick up myself and our whole carpool at school, way out yonder in Christiana, Tennessee. On these days, the whole carpool of kids knew we were going to get to stop at a store for snacks and candies that she would buy for us. Every time.
When someone dies, you start to think about who they really were as a person. At least I do. I've been thinking about whether I really knew my grandmother very well. She was always there for us. She constantly allowed gaggles of children, teenagers, family of all sorts, strangers off the street or someone she just met at the grocery store into her home, providing them beverages and snacks–just making them feel noticed and cared for.
My grandmother would help anyone who needed help, asked for help or maybe didn't even ask but she thought they needed it. I always wonder and question sometimes when people are so consistently kind and giving… Do they really mean it? Do they really want to be this way or are they bitter because they're constantly serving others? I never asked my grandmother these questions. Maybe she was frustrated sometimes–but I really don't know that she was bitter about it. It was like an innate portion of herself–it seemed to just happen naturally.
She had dementia for more than the last ten years of her life. I remember secretly thinking when first finding out she had dementia, that maybe we would finally see the “real, unfiltered,” Granmommie–whoever that might be. But even when she lost parts of herself, parts of her brain, somehow she maintained the kindness, the compassion and the hostess in her–the lady remained.
Most everyone who lives with intense and prolonged dementia at times have angry outbursts, frustration and sometimes malice. But somehow my grandmother remained ever-so kind and gracious. Even when she had no idea who I was, when I would arrive at her home, she would say "It’s so good to see you, dahhhhlin." She would also usually compliment something I was wearing, even though I knew that her poor eyesight had advanced to the point where my Goodwill clothing likely appeared as a blur of colors. And, of course, she would also offer me some sort of refreshment. (To note: “dahhhlin” is the Southern Belle pronunciation of "darling," if you are unfamiliar. All my life, she said “Hiiii, dahhhlin” or “Hey, huuuuney” and it made you feel like you were the only honey and darling she knew. I can hear it now.)
As I was growing up, my grandmother didn't complain. I'm sure she did, or hopefully she did, to others or to her husband–my grandfather. But I didn't see it. She just served all of us. And I don't know that I really ever thanked her for it, not properly anyway. Again, she was just always there. And as an adult now, I wish I had asked her more questions. I wish I had asked what she needed and what she wanted. I feel like I took her kindness and graciousness for granted.
But I suppose there’s no use in worrying about that now. Hopefully she knows. Hopefully she sees me now as I’m typing this, crying because I wish I had known her more deeply. And maybe that’s not something you’re supposed to say when talking about someone who just passed.
As a child, I think sometimes you don’t always view your grandparents or various adults as actual human beings. That sounds odd perhaps, but I don’t think I thought much about what stresses she was experiencing. What was it that she enjoyed doing in her spare time? Was she exhausted? Was she tired of all the grandchildren, great grandchildren and neighbor kids stopping by her house at all hours of the day to grab a soft drink or popsicle from her constantly-stocked fridge? Was she tired of hosting and entertaining us all?
What did she love to do that was just for her? I love to understand what makes people tick. What gets them up in the morning, what lights them up, what destroys them. What are their sorrows and pains and regrets and traumas and desires?
It wasn’t until I was much older that I became more comfortable asking people deeper questions about themselves. But by the time I reached this, Granmommie was already living with dementia.
From this granddaughter’s perspective (me), Granmommie kept some of these details about herself zipped up in her matching, tweed skirt-suits. I know some of my other cousins, aunts and family members saw her more often than I did and obviously knew her more intimately. I just wish I had asked more questions when I was able to.
But maybe, just maybe she was showing us who she was, always. Maybe there doesn’t have to be another side to someone who expresses constant kindness, graciousness and servitude. Some people view constant niceness as a weakness. But I think it takes a certain type of extremely strong person to maintain that kindness in every aspect of life–to have made such an impact on people who only met you once or twice, but they still, decades later, talk about the warmth and gentleness they felt radiate from you. That was my Granmommie.
What’s the takeaway from all this? (Not that there has to be one.) But, I guess, if there is anyone in your life who you wish to know and understand more, don’t wait to ask. And don’t wait to thank them.
Bonus fun fact discovered by my Aunt Becky Cagle (my Mom’s sister):
Granmommie (my paternal grandmother, the one who just passed) was five years and nine days younger than my maternal grandmother (Granny). And fascinatingly, Granmommie passed away five years and nine days after my Granny. So they essentially lived the exact same amount of time — meaning, my Mom and Dad got to spend the same amount of years with their mothers. What a funny thing. Thanks to my Aunt Becky (the nuclear engineer) for discovering this fun fact.