She divorced her alcoholic husband, went to Columbia, and got a Masters in Library Science. It was just before World War II. When she met and married my grandfather, only he (and she) were happy among their relations.
They settled in Worcester, Massachusetts. They worked as librarians for Clark University. My grandfather’s portrait hangs in Clark's library today. In the early sixties, they bought some land on the coast of Maine and built a small summer home. My father and his two brothers were almost teenagers, then.
Over the years, as my father and uncles grew older, they’d bring their families to the summer home in Maine. I was the first grandchild -- her first grandson, she would remind me. A kiss on the cheek and then back to the cocktail party, where communists and lesbians and historians and gay men (shh, don’t say that) would be having the time of their lives. “Don’t waste good gin on tonic,” she’d instruct in a stage whisper, “and never trust anyone who drinks only vodka.”
Being the first grandchild had its privileges. One summer, when I was eleven, my grandfather was sitting in his favorite Morris chair, waiting for Jim Lehrer to come on. He was three months away from succumbing to lung cancer. I wanted to watch CHiPs, and started to cry. He changed the channel and watched it with me. I was such a little shit.
My grandmother prospered after my grandfather was gone, if truth be told. Always casting herself against type, she grew more liberal as she aged. In her eighties, she said “Pulp Fiction” was her favorite movie. Her mail was a fascinating collection of come-ons from the ACLU, People for the American Way, and the Sierra Club. She briefly changed her residency to Maine because the Democrats didn’t need another vote in Massachusetts. I remember her arguing endlessly with my father, the up-and-coming economics professor (who broke her heart by voting for Clark, the libertarian, in 1980). “I don’t care if you’re right,” she said. “I don’t care.”
She’s dying now. If not for the breast cancer, or the emphysema, or the heart condition (pop-flutter-flutter-pop), she might live out the year. I called her not so long ago and her voice -- always so strong, always so wise -- couldn’t wait for the call to be over.
There are people who only live, and then die for something. And there are people who live for something, and then only die. I know which I think is worse.
This is an open thread.
God bless, von.
Posted by: Anarch | January 28, 2004 at 11:27 PM
Thanks.
Posted by: von | January 28, 2004 at 11:49 PM
Our thoughts and prayers, of course; if there's anything that we can do, please let us know.
Posted by: Moe Lane | January 29, 2004 at 12:03 AM
Like Moe said. This was beautifully written, I'm glad I got a chance to read it. "I don't care if you're right" is a line for the ages.
I used to spend every summer in Maine in Acadia National Park--probably not far from that summer house. And my sister almost went to college at Clark.
Posted by: Katherine | January 29, 2004 at 12:33 AM
Von,
I was going to write about losing my Dad a couple of years ago because your post reminded me so much about it, but...
...suffice to say I can feel your pain. I don't have any sage advice or perfect words of comfort as I learned they don't really exist, but the thoughts and gestures do really count. So you are in my thoughts and prayers.
Posted by: Macallan | January 29, 2004 at 01:19 AM
Thanks, all. (My thoughts and prayers with you, too, Macallan.)
Katherine -- The cabin is about 10 minutes from Schoonic Pennisula, which is a part of Acadia (most of Acadia is on Mount Desert Island, but part of Schoonic is designated as parkland as well.)
Posted by: von | January 29, 2004 at 07:51 AM
Von-
My condolences. I recently lost my grandmother, so I think I understand how you feel.
The hardest thing about losing someone like that is that they've been a part of your life for so long that you feel like they'll be around forever. Of course they won't, but it's still a hard slap in the face from Reality.
Posted by: JKC | January 29, 2004 at 08:05 AM
Von,
I wish meaningful, reaffirming moments between you and your grandmother as you go through this with her.
I must have "matured" somewhat in the past few years...because when I first lost someone close to me I was so violently angry...at God, at the doctors, even at the person who left me...it seemed an unforgivable abandonment and the fact that I couldn't do anything to bring them back sent me into a rage.
It's happened so frequently lately, though, that I've realized my role for my family is to be the strong one...the guardian, so to speak, and that doesn't allow me any time to be angry. Odd as it sounds, having the role really makes it more bearable. No less sad, but somewhat less painful.
Having said that, the only thing I've learned for sure over the past few years is that there's no right or wrong way to grieve...each person should be given the room and latitude to handle a loss in the way that they need to.
God bless; your grandmother sounds like a truly amazing person.
Posted by: Edward | January 29, 2004 at 10:07 AM
My sympathies, von. About ten years ago I lost my grandmother to Lou Gehrig's Disease, and was there in the room with her watching as she passed.
Posted by: Catsy | January 29, 2004 at 02:40 PM
Von,
There is living, and living well. It sounds like your grandmother lived an extrodinary life, and will end it with no regrets.
Make sure you know what her wishes are on how she wants to end to be. Families are much more comfortable when these desicions are made ahead of time. To often, I see families lost and distressed while loved ones linger on ventilators or ending life with chest compressions and emergency drugs because no one asked the right questions. You have my condolences and best wishes during this difficult time.
Posted by: Galen | January 29, 2004 at 05:15 PM
von,
beautiful, sad.
stay strong.
Posted by: bjurk | January 29, 2004 at 05:36 PM
My condolences, Von. Take care.
Posted by: Jesurgislac | January 30, 2004 at 07:42 AM
I'll have to keep an eye out for that portrait next time I'm at the library.
Posted by: Stentor | January 30, 2004 at 11:12 AM
Thanks, all. And good advice. I'm trying to cherish the time that's left, but, well, distance, work, crap -- there's never enough time. There's no way not to feel guilty or wrong or undone about something.
I'll have to keep an eye out for that portrait next time I'm at the library.
It's a white-haired fellow, seated, with a relatively-strange first name. (I should say that I haven't actually seen the portrait in a couple years, so I'm not sure where it's hanging.)
Posted by: von | January 30, 2004 at 11:41 AM