Six years ago today, my grandmother died.
She was and is my inspiration and I never even told her.
I’ve been choreographing this post in my head for several
days now. I’ve been sitting in front of my dumb computer for hours typing and
deleting. Typing. Deleting. Retyping.
I want to get this right. I need to capture all of the things that made her wonderful. I
want you to feel it with me.
I would listen to her in awe and wonder, “How did you
possibly have time for all of these adventures in your life?”
Because of her, I knew I needed to live a life full of as
many stories as possible; stories worth telling my own pretend,
grandchildren.
In 1995, she was diagnosed with breast cancer
and, with my grandfather, came from North Carolina to live with us to receive better treatment in Philadelphia.
I was so excited that they were going to be around.
The thing is, she asked me questions. The questions weren’t
difficult, but they made me think. She was engaged. She encouraged conversations.
I remember sitting outside on a bench one day while we
waited for my mother to register for nursing classes at the community college.
She asked me, “Who is your favorite teacher ever and why?”
I thought about it and decided that the teacher I had
that school year, for fifth grade, was my favorite. I don’t remember the reasons I gave her. She
told me that her favorite was her fifth grade teacher too. I think her name was Ms.
Brown. I don’t remember the reasons she gave to back up her answer, but I
remember thinking her teacher sounded wonderful by the way she described her
even if I can’t remember any of the details. I remember the way her
descriptions made me feel and I wanted to experience life through the same kind of eyes.
She seemed to appreciate my company and liked
having me around - which goes a long way for a kid. She seemed interested in the things I thought about. She made
me feel like I mattered.
Sometimes she would take me to a farmer’s market to pick out
fruit, especially if I had never tried it before. She taught me to be interested in trying new food. She taught me to love food.
She was interested in other cultures, especially Native
Americans.
She was an only child. She had seven children.
She taught me how to make whipped cream and shortcake from
scratch. She taught me how to prepare fruit so we could keep it in the freezer
to enjoy in the winter.
She taught me how to do my laundry.
When the moon was full, she’d bring me to the beach to
watch it rise over the ocean.
Sometimes, she would bring me to the ferry just to watch
people miss the boat! I’m not even kidding! This was one of our activities! I
don’t remember her asking, but I bet she encouraged conversations like, “Where
do you think they’re trying to go?”, “I hope they don’t have an emergency.
Wouldn’t that be terrible?”, or "Why do you think they left a couple minutes late?"
When I decided I wanted to be an astronomer, she brought me
outside to look at the stars.
When I decided I wanted to be a meteorologist, she took me
out to watch storms.
When I decided I wanted to be a journalist, I asked her for
an interview. Rather than telling me about her own life, she responded by
pretending to be an overworked, chain-smoking, child circus star with a funny accent!
Another time she emerged from the bathroom with balloons in
her shirt and said she was Dolly Parton!
Sometimes, she'd start snowball or whipped cream fights in the house. And anytime we had cake, she’d
always attack someone with it! No one was safe - she’d go after guests! Nowhere
was safe - she’d go after you in the bathroom!
When she began her cancer treatments, she took the cotton from a pill bottle and stuck it to her face and hair. She came out of the bathroom writhing about the side effects of the medication.
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| Side effects from medication. |
We laughed a lot. She was really funny.
After dinner on holidays, we’d always play board games.
She’d tell me stories about how she met my grandfather: when
they were teenagers on a public bus in Philadelphia on a hot, summer day. She
said he ran off the bus to get her.
She told me about another time when she was terrified on a small boat at night by the sounds of
drum fish in the water around
her. She'd make the sounds of the fish: "Bum bum bum bum bum."
She told me about the time she saw the Northern Lights when
she lived in Upstate New York.
She told me about the time when she was camping with her
friends and a can of beans exploded on the fire. She said shards of the can were found
sticking in a nearby tree but, luckily, no one got hurt.
She told me about the time when she was walking outside in
the freezing cold and her nostrils froze together.
She told me about the time she got salmonella, so she wouldn’t let me eat raw cookie dough.
She told me about how they used to live on a farm; about the
time that they saved two young cows from being slaughtered; about the time when
they slaughtered their chickens for dinner.
She made the best banana cream pie.
She told me why I should never eat veal.
During the summer of 2006, she was in the hospital for something I can't remember. She was sure she was dying and she was scared. I was visiting her when the doctor came in and asked her what was wrong. She said, "I'm dying." And the doctor responded, unsympathetically, "We're all dying." I don't think she thought that was funny, but she didn't die that time.
She told me how much her heart hurt when her pets died.
She told me about how her father died on Christmas.
I watched her cry when my other grandmother died. They were
friends.
I watched her cry when my dad had his heart attack and we
didn’t know if he was going to be okay.
I saw her
crying when it was my fault. I told her I was sorry, but I felt awkward apologizing because I was
a kid. I really meant the apology, but I always wanted to redo it. I was young, I don't think it could have seemed sincere.
My heart aches just thinking that I upset her. I always meant to apologize again for it. For
years, I meant to bring it up. I never did. I have to
live with that.
When I was 22, I lived down the street from her for the summer.
I’d often spend evenings at her house and she would feed me dinner.
This one night, she insisted on walking me home to be safe. It was only
about three blocks so we compromised that she would bring me halfway. Here is this 80-something lady walking a
young, 20-something home because she was worried about me.
On the walk, I remember how happy she was. She said it was a beautiful night and she was looking at the sky, smiling. When we got to
the halfway mark, she stopped and I continued on. I looked back and she was
still standing there, gazing up at the sky. I feel like I
could see her smiling and appreciating the moment.
She reminds me to slow down and look around.
I saw her about two months before she
passed away in September 2009. She was standing in her kitchen making coffee when I walked into her house. She
was swollen from the medication. The cancer had returned.
She looked like her bones were causing excruciating pain
and it made me hurt for her.
I told her about my most recent visit to Switzerland. She
loved to hear about it. I told her that I was living in the mountains. She loved the
mountains. I told her that I was growing an herb garden in a sunny
window.
I told her that I was sad because I felt isolated in the mountains. She told
me that having an herb garden sounded really nice and, whether she meant it or
not, this is how she reminded me to just appreciate the adventure of the life I
was living.
This is how she reminds me to see the beautiful things, collect
stories, and get out of my head.
She taught me to see the details in moments. She taught me
to be interested in what other people have to say.
She taught me to live.
Six years ago today, when my mother called to tell me she
was gone, I felt a part of the world come crashing down. I was in Colorado at the time, so I boarded a plane to New Jersey to be with my family the following morning.
It was the day after my grandfather’s birthday. She had
waited.
I want you to know about her because she is my inspiration
for this: my traveling and adventures.
I need to live a life full of stories worth
talking about, like she did. I often find myself pushing boundaries and comfort zones,
because I need to see what will happen. Maybe I'll learn something new and hopefully not die trying. At least not yet.
She taught me that happiness can exist by looking at life like a quest to collect stories worth telling - even if she never said it.
I wish I could tell her about my adventures now. I hope I’m making her proud. I wish I had written this while she was still alive so she could know how much she meant to me.
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| March 2009 |
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| My mother and grandmother visiting me at work - on a boat. June 2007. |
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| Trying some of the beer she helped brew. 1995 or 1996. |
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| My graduation from Rutgers University. May 2008. |
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Frances "Dolly" King
September 6, 1925 - November 16, 2011 |
I hope that I can pass on a fraction of the passion for life that she has instilled in me. My pretend children and grandchildren will never know her, but I hope that her fire which exists in me, will continue on in the world for many generations to come.
On a final note:
If you knew her, I think it would be really, really nice if
you wanted to share some of your favorite memories of her in the comments
below. And if you didn’t know her, maybe you want to share some of your
favorite memories of someone that has deeply inspired you.
