Rest in Peace, Grammy

Well, this was supposed to be a silly blog. Just something kind of off-the-cuff, you know?  Blowing off the steam, flexing the writing muscles, building up a little bit of compositional stamina.  And here we are. Day 2 and it's already therapy. 

Grammy died today. Wilda Beth Carter neé Olson ("Wilda than most"), my last remaining grandparent.  She died suddenly, but incredibly peacefully.  My mom said she got up like any other day, read a bit, visited with my aunt, all the usual this and that. And then during lunch she just slipped away.  That's a part that kind of gets me.  I love lunch. It's one of my favorite times of day. Maybe even more than dinner.  And she quietly determined that that was the end. 

Hers was by far the easiest death of all of my grandparents. No hospitals. No tubes. No doctors that are somehow stifling with their sympathy. A quiet death, at home, surrounded by family, at lunch.  She died as she lived. 

And I'm sad. I'm sad I won't get to see her again. Or hug her or hear her laugh. I won't get another card from her.  She's one of the only people that always, always sends me a card on my birthday. She has so many grandchildren and great grandchildren I don't know how she manages to do it. Or should I say managed.  I hate that. 

I hate death.  Even a good death after a good life. There's just something so absurd about it.  She was here and now she's not.   And it wasn't even Covid that got her.  Just lunch. 

I suppose I don't want to spend all of my Pomodoro today talking about death. I'll still hate it just as much and it's not like I'll be able to persuade him to retire.  

I want to talk about life.  Her life.  What I can remember anyway.  I'm sure I'll hear more again at the funeral that has slipped my mind for right now.  But before my memories are adjusted by what I hear, I want to preserve what I have right now. 

She was born in Indiana, I'm pretty sure.  No siblings.  Her parents, mamo and babo (I can't remember their real names right now) were of Norwegian stock and I think came down to Indiana from Minnesota or somewhere further North.  She went to Wheaton College, which is where she met my grandfather. She studied to be a nurse, although I don't think she worked outside the home very long. 

They lived in Walkerton, Indiana, a small town near South Bend. They went to church in Koontz Lake.  They had lots of friends and were widely respected. My grandfather as the town doctor, school board member and Sunday School teacher and my grandmother the church organist, often accompanying her daughters as they sang trios together. 

Of course my memories start past all that.  I do remember her playing organ when we would visit them on a rare Sunday.  But more I remember her playing the piano at home.  I remember gathering around the piano during the annual Christmas hymn sing and being amazed by her as she flew through "'Twas the Night Before Christmas."   You could turn to any hymn in the hymnal and the music would just fly out of her fingers. 

I remember her in the kitchen.  It took a lot to feed all of us when we came to visit and she always had something delicious to share.  Now I'm not sure which recipes were hers and which were my aunt's, but I always remember Turkey Cookies, soft rolls, some yummy kind of potatoes and those weird Styrofoam-like wafer cookies and off-brand Oreos.  I remember the tiny little table in the kitchen at Grammy's house and all the picnic tables out by the pool. 

It was always Grammy's house by the way. Never Grandad's.  Isn't that funny?  

I remember fun toys that only seemed to exist at Grandma's house (including the vintage Odyssey video game set from the '80s).  Swimming in the pool was always a highlight, especially the three or four "last swims" we had before they sold their house and moved to South Bend. I remember her house full of laughter, of security, and of peace. No worries there, Grammy was taking care of it. 

Some things I don't remember, though I'm sure they happened.   I'm pretty sure it was she and Grandad that took us to Disney World when I was in elementary school.  I'm pretty sure I remember playing Rummikub with her.  Maybe.  I don't remember sitting with Grammy much one on one. I don't remember snuggling with her or her reading to me.  There were always too many cousins, too much to do. And I probably wouldn't have sat still anyway.  Or it's just that it's easier to remember the bad things than the good.

I remember her scurrying.  Scurrying to help my grandfather with whatever he needed when his health started to fail. Scurrying and worrying.  Keeping everything together is hard. And she was never one to complain or ask for help. Just scurrying faster and worrying more. My aunt's health declined rapidly around then too.  It was hard on her.  Caring for her husband and her daughter.  Scurrying and worrying. 

It seemed to me that she smiled less and less. She withdrew into herself and was so anxious.  It was hard to watch.  This was when I was in college.  We hoped she might come back into herself a bit more when my grandfather passed, but it took a long time.  Mental illness is like that.  When depression takes it hold it can be so difficult to shake.  Even for a people of faith. Even for remarkable followers of Jesus.  I think it is on her behalf that I get so angry when Christians reject therapy or depression as a disease of the body.  When they substitute "believing harder" or "praying more" for actual treatment.  If there was a woman alive that didn't need to be told to pray harder, it was my grandmother.  I'm so thankful that she got the treatment she needed.  And that, by and by, she did come back to us.  Though I don't think I ever heard her play the piano again. 

Some things I know she loved: 

Football. I'm not sure when exactly she became a fan, but she loved the Indianapolis colts and never missed a game.  Serene in victory or defeat alike, I'm not sure why she was so drawn to it.  Love of the game I suppose.  Happy to be a part of the community.  

Reading.  She devoured books, especially in retirement. She loved the Number One Ladies Detective Agency and anything by Jan Karen.  I remember a funny moment when she passed my mother a book which was based on the Biblical story of ____.  But because the cover looks like a slightly saucy historical romance, she passed it in a paper sack. It was always fun to ask her what she was reading and see her face light up. 

Church.  She loved church.  The people, the worship.  Even when she wasn't helping lead it, it was always, always her favorite part of the week.  We definitely have that in common. 

Watching.  Maybe she wasn't like this her whole life, but I remember her as a Grandmother who loved to watch. She'd be in the room and she wouldn't want to play the game, but she'd like to watch.  She'd come along to watch just about anything. She never wanted to be the center of attention, and often didn't even want to participate past watching. But she was good at it.  I'm glad her apartment at the end of her life had such great big windows. So much for her to watch. 

She was so gentle and kind.  I literally can't remember her raising her voice or speaking an unkind word. And so generous.  For years I've received checks from her.  $100 every birthday and Christmas.  And sometimes, out of the blue $5000 in an envelope in the mailbox.  Just because she had so much and she wanted to share it.  Just like her to give it away like she would give away all her Monopoly money, just because someone asked her. 

What a blessing to know you. 

What a blessing to be blessed by you. 

What a blessing to be counted among your legacy. 

45 minutes isn't enough for a life. Not even close. And I'm sure I'm leaving out all kinds of things.  Like the way she brushed her teeth so vigorously that she had chronic receding gums.  Or the way she'd say, "Oh, I'm just fine," in the most Norwegian way. 

Death sucks and I hate it.  I hate that everything that was the last time I saw her just became THE LAST time I saw her. I regret not asking her more questions.  I feel the lack of her already. 

Thank you, Grammy. There is much left to say and much left to grieve, but, for now, rest in peace. We'll meet again at the feet of Jesus. Hallelujah, amen.