Remembering My Grandmother

My uncle delivered the eulogy at my grandmother's memorial service in 1994. I was very disappointed by his presentation, so I wrote my own and mailed it to everyone who had been present. Twenty years and several computers later, I had lost the original file. Finding a hard copy in my mother's old file cabinet last week was an unexpected gift.

My grandmother and mother

At my grandmother's funeral, I was sorry to learn that her son's view of her was obscured by sadness at the infirmities of her final years, and that he had but few and dim recollections of the many events, emotions and moments that composed her life and defined her character.

I was sorry that her list of "accomplishments" -- children and descendants -- was so limited, and that the description of her character was confined to praise for her religious faith.

It's true that my grandmother didn't travel around the world, write bestselling fiction, appear on television, save starving lepers or design skyscrapers. She didn't influence America's foreign policy, start a new dance craze or discover a cure for cancer. She didn't even drive.

Lida Boose was an ordinary woman, born at a time when being an ordinary woman was a virtue. She grew up in what was then a quiet, mostly rural community, married a farmer, and raised two children. She cooked, sewed, kept house and maintained an active interest in the lives of her family.

My grandparents were simple people, which is a way of saying they were not particularly sophisticated and had little formal education. But they appreciated books and learning. Their house was full of books, especially the westerns and mysteries my grandfather enjoyed. Lida had dropped out of high school, but when her children were nearly grown she decided to take the necessary classes, and earned her diploma at last.

Some of my happiest childhood memories are of spending the night with Grandma and Grandpa in their old house by the orange grove. At that time, the entire second story of the house was used only for storage. She believed the floor was unsound, so children were allowed to venture up there only occasionally, under anxious supervision, taking delicate steps lest we crash through to the rooms below. To me it was a fabulous, dusty treasure trove of old books and toys, and dress-up clothes dating back to an ancient time -- Grandma's unimaginable youth.

I loved her scrapbooks. She had saved every Valentine her children received for years, and they were delightful -- elaborate, old fashioned cards with pop-up scenery, moving parts, or layers of ruffles. She had books full of newspaper clippings on subjects that fascinated me: cats that adopted orphaned rabbits, ladies whose hair was six feet long, people who lived to be 105, pets that saved their owners' lives. The time she spent putting her scrapbooks together was well worth the hours of entertainment they provided.

For a while, she and her sister had run a small gift shop, and for years after it closed, interesting items from the final inventory would show up as decorations or gifts at Christmas, birthdays, and other special occasions. My cousin Patti and I spent New Year's Eve with her, and brought down boxes of confetti and streamers to throw at midnight. I have a photo of Grandma in her nightgown, ducking and laughing.

Christmas was her favorite time of year. Every year she laid out her Nativity scene, with cotton depicting snow in Bethlehem! There was always a Christmas tree, although eventually the big, natural trees were replaced by a small, artificial one. She liked to give lots of presents, something important that you'd asked for, and plenty of little things wrapped and hidden in advance, so that inevitably some were overlooked, and in the spring she would find something and I'd get another surprise. Around the end of June, she would announce, with happy anticipation, "It's only six more months until Christmas!"

Her 68th birthday

Grandma was a very emotional person who often overreacted to the normal events of life. Her feelings were easily hurt, sometimes in ways that were difficult to understand. She avoided direct confrontation, and would complain to one person about another, which could be very exasperating for everyone involved. At the same time, I think her own hypersensitivity enhanced her concern about other people's feelings. She didn't want to offend anyone, and she wanted everyone to get along and be happy. At children's birthday parties, she remembered to bring little gifts for the non-birthday siblings, so that no one would feel neglected. She tried very hard to give us what we wanted. If I mentioned once that I liked peanut brittle and rose perfume, then for years peanut brittle and rose perfume would appear at every birthday.

I'll admit that as I got older I often thought of her as an emotionally weak person. She limited herself with phobias and anxieties. She wouldn't drive a car, and had difficulty going places because of claustrophobia and other irrational fears. In her mind, minor risks were magnified into imminent dangers, and she wanted everyone else to share her worries.

But her real inner strength was demonstrated year after year as she assumed more and more of the increasingly difficult task of caring for her invalid mother. She filled in on the live-in caretaker's day off. When a caretaker quit, she stayed in the house until another could be found. When it finally became impossible to find a new caretaker, she moved in full-time. It was a dreary and thankless job that she did out of both love and duty, and continued to do until it was no longer possible to provide care outside of a nursing home. She more than earned the right to be well taken care of when her turn came. I am glad that she was able to stay in her own home, surrounded by her own possessions, until the very end.

As a young wife

I didn't see her very often during the past few years. When I did, she didn't remember me, although she often remembered my husband and was then able to identify me as "Steve's wife". Although I don't know what the details of her daily life were like, I suspect her memory loss bothered other people much more than it did her. She was increasingly fragile, but when I saw her, her overall demeanor and personality were still quite recognizably those of the person she had always been. She liked having visitors, and seemed to enjoy being introduced to semi-new people.

Every person is unique. When Lida Boose died, the world lost someone who had not been here before, and who will not be here again. I miss her, but I know that it was time for her to go. If I could speak to her now, I'd just like to say, I love you, don't be afraid, and sleep well.

     Rosemary West
     January 1994