I won't wear black to my grandmother's memorial service, even though it is the generally accepted thing to do when one is mourning. I wear black in my day to day wardrobe quite frequently; I like to wear black. But I cannot recall a single time that I saw my grandmother wear it. Honestly, I can't. Undoubtedly she did so at funerals, but I don't remember it.
She loved vibrant colors, most especially blue. Every year for the last 6 years I have given her a new hat for Christmas, all in different, gorgeous shades. Rose, bright red, cobalt blue, deep purple. She loved them all, and let me tell you, that woman could work a hat.
One of her favorite things to do was watch the hummingbirds that drank from the many feeders she had surrounding her house. She could differentiate each one, noting their markings and how fast they were, how much they drank, how often she had to refill the feeders. She loved flowers and had beautiful tea roses blooming right outside her door. In the Spring and Summer her yard was full of blooms from azaleas and clematis, Easter always meant lilies and Winter meant poinsettias.
Life, for her, was colorful and bright and beautiful. So while I am mourning her loss, I am also celebrating her life. And I don't think cloaking myself in black is the way to honor her memory. Looks like it's time to go shopping.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Joyce Elaine Ford
Images and memories are swirling around in my head like the snow flurries that have been swirling around us for the past two days. Seems fitting to me that my powerhouse of a grandmother would die during a devastatingly powerful blizzard. Seems right to me that her leaving the earth would be heralded by an act of God. Only fitting that her passing was marked by a steady fall of flakes, the sky both applauding her life and mourning her death. Symbolic that her life, full of beauty and strength, ended during a snowstorm full of its' own majesty.
It is not easy to believe that she is gone. She helped raise me from day one, always a part of me, always the center of a family of loud, laughing, passionate women. My grandmother married for the first time as teenager and began a family soon after. The mother of four daughters, three from her first marriage and one from her second, was nothing if not strong. She would never describe herself that way, but that has always been my thought. How else could you persevere through two divorces, followed by the deaths of both of those men, all while raising your four girls? She managed to survive the death of her oldest daughter, my Aunt Rhonda, to breast cancer when Rhonda was only 33. She was the primary caregiver of my great grandmother after Biggie developed dementia. After many years of marriage to my PaPa, her third husband and true love, he died too young from cancer. None of this was easy, obviously, but my GaGa soldiered on. She was no saint, by any means, but no matter what, her loving spirit never diminished.
While I was growing up, Sundays were always spent at GaGa's house. The whole family would converge there, spending the day cooking and eating, trading stories about our weeks. All of the daughters and grandchildren crowded into the kitchen and living room, laughing and crying together, picking on each other, arguing and reconciling, sharing in each others' lives. Sometimes friends would join and I would always warn them that there could be no shyness at GaGa's house: if you were at that table you were now family and you would not be left alone. I remember my poor friend Marie quietly taking out her retainer before we ate dinner once and my PaPa immediately pounced on the opportunity to take out his fake teeth, flicking his partial dentures at her to show her that he had a retainer too. I remember playing Scrabble, which to my family is pretty much second in importance only to the Bible, with all of us crowded around the table competing as if it were life and death. My GaGa never wanted to play by the rules, never would believe us if one of us played an unusual word. Consequently, she challenged us a lot and frequently lost, which then meant she would quit the game fussing at us for all being cheaters. Never stopped us all from laughing til we cried, loving every second of it. It is part of our family's charm: merciless, yet loving, teasing and playfulness. We do nothing without passion, and my GaGa was the queen matriarch of it all.
Her death is a devastating loss. It seems impossible that the world can exist without her in it. How can anyone possibly sing hymns the way she could? Inconceivable that I won't see those baby blue eyes sparkling anymore. How did the rotation of the earth not come to a screeching halt when she died? My very soul is rebelling against the idea. The sunlight glowing on the snow right now seems to be telling me that my heart will thaw, that I will move on, just like this snow will melt and Spring will eventually come. I am no stranger to the cold Winter of loss, so I know it will pass. I am grateful that I had 80 years with her wisdom, her laugh, her gentle touch, her vibrant love. I am grateful that three of her daughters are still here and are so much like her in different ways. I am grateful that my children, her legacy, knew her well and loved her so. I hope that she knows what a force she was, what an inspiration she will continue to be. Rest now, my dear grandmother, and know that your life was lived to the fullest.
It is not easy to believe that she is gone. She helped raise me from day one, always a part of me, always the center of a family of loud, laughing, passionate women. My grandmother married for the first time as teenager and began a family soon after. The mother of four daughters, three from her first marriage and one from her second, was nothing if not strong. She would never describe herself that way, but that has always been my thought. How else could you persevere through two divorces, followed by the deaths of both of those men, all while raising your four girls? She managed to survive the death of her oldest daughter, my Aunt Rhonda, to breast cancer when Rhonda was only 33. She was the primary caregiver of my great grandmother after Biggie developed dementia. After many years of marriage to my PaPa, her third husband and true love, he died too young from cancer. None of this was easy, obviously, but my GaGa soldiered on. She was no saint, by any means, but no matter what, her loving spirit never diminished.
While I was growing up, Sundays were always spent at GaGa's house. The whole family would converge there, spending the day cooking and eating, trading stories about our weeks. All of the daughters and grandchildren crowded into the kitchen and living room, laughing and crying together, picking on each other, arguing and reconciling, sharing in each others' lives. Sometimes friends would join and I would always warn them that there could be no shyness at GaGa's house: if you were at that table you were now family and you would not be left alone. I remember my poor friend Marie quietly taking out her retainer before we ate dinner once and my PaPa immediately pounced on the opportunity to take out his fake teeth, flicking his partial dentures at her to show her that he had a retainer too. I remember playing Scrabble, which to my family is pretty much second in importance only to the Bible, with all of us crowded around the table competing as if it were life and death. My GaGa never wanted to play by the rules, never would believe us if one of us played an unusual word. Consequently, she challenged us a lot and frequently lost, which then meant she would quit the game fussing at us for all being cheaters. Never stopped us all from laughing til we cried, loving every second of it. It is part of our family's charm: merciless, yet loving, teasing and playfulness. We do nothing without passion, and my GaGa was the queen matriarch of it all.
Her death is a devastating loss. It seems impossible that the world can exist without her in it. How can anyone possibly sing hymns the way she could? Inconceivable that I won't see those baby blue eyes sparkling anymore. How did the rotation of the earth not come to a screeching halt when she died? My very soul is rebelling against the idea. The sunlight glowing on the snow right now seems to be telling me that my heart will thaw, that I will move on, just like this snow will melt and Spring will eventually come. I am no stranger to the cold Winter of loss, so I know it will pass. I am grateful that I had 80 years with her wisdom, her laugh, her gentle touch, her vibrant love. I am grateful that three of her daughters are still here and are so much like her in different ways. I am grateful that my children, her legacy, knew her well and loved her so. I hope that she knows what a force she was, what an inspiration she will continue to be. Rest now, my dear grandmother, and know that your life was lived to the fullest.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)