She was 105.
She was my dad’s mother; my last surviving grandparent. Both of my grandfathers died before I was born.
I was emailing back and forth with my mom yesterday. Among other things, we were talking about the Pope, and I told her of my Popewatch thread. She replied that my grandmother had just been sent to the hospital from the nursing home where she lived. And, this’ll sound terrible, but my mom harrumphed, “She’ll probably outlast John Paul. She’s outlasted everyone else.”
Now I get an email saying, “I hope that you didn’t lay down that bet. You would have lost. Grammy died. I can’t believe she actually died.”
I can’t either.
I’ll be honest and say that I did not love her. I liked her more than most people did, but that was easier for a kid. She was bossy to the point of rudeness, very mean to her niece (Rosaline, whose death a few years ago I also made a thread on), mean to my mom, abusive to my dad…in fact, she treated just about everyone like crap, except my uncle, who she spoiled rotten.
But she had her good qualities, as long as you didn’t depend on her. She worked in a munitions plant in WWII, and I heard a lot about it from her. Did you know that until people started getting Red Cross training in that era, a lot of them still thought you should put butter on a burn? She let me play with her junk jewelry, handkerchiefs, and other trinkets, because she knew I’d put them back neat and organized, no matter how big a muddle they’d been in. Free housekeeping!
Once when I was about 10, I was in Roseto for the Big Time (don’t ask) and ambled down to Aunt Rosie’s. She and Rosaline and Lenny were hosting about twenty people. I stayed for the pre-dinner snacks and fizzy lemonade, then excused myself to have dinner with Grammy. Because? Aunt Rosie was one of the best Italian, or any kind of, cooks I’ve ever known. Grammy was a horrible cook, but got great joy out of preparing and serving her overdone pork chops and greasy salads. The Fattores (not their real name) had twenty guests. Grammy just had my dad and me. Who would be more disappointed?
Then when I got back, my dad had a fit because a) he hadn’t known where I was and b) they were going to Aunt Rosie’s for dinner, and I should have just stayed there. Like it’s my fault he doesn’t talk to his mother? I TOLD Grammy where I was going. And where else was I going to go in Roseto? There were three places: the fire station, to play with the dog, the pizzeria, which was closed, and Aunt Rosie’s. Zheesh.
Anyway. She pulled a lot of crap on people. She was the classic MIL to my mom and two of my uncle’s wives (the third is from the South, and can do “Well, bless your heart!” like a pro). My mom says that she should have seen the writing on the wall when Daddy brought her to Tony and Eleanor’s wedding (before they were engaged) and Grammy was ordering the caterers around, when she wasn’t even the mother of the groom, let alone the bride, but only the groom’s aunt. But she was the only one who would take my sister in after she left her abusive husband. (Long story, and doesn’t reflect badly on my parents, but the point is, she did it, and now my sister has a degree and a corporate job.)
I don’t know; I’m just rambling. It’s just hard to believe that she won’t still be around. First she was 80, then 90, then 100 (telegram from the governor and everything). A few years ago, my dad, whose hair is now white, was visiting her in the nursing home. The attendant was prodding her to see if she knew who her visitor was. No, not your husband. Not your father. Not the monsignor. It’s your son.
“My son? That can’t be! I’d have to be a hundred years old!”
Oh, and if you want to feel bad for someone, feel bad for my dad. The funeral’s pre-paid, but he still has to pay an arm, a leg and a kidney to fly out there. Then he’ll see his brother for the first time in years…
BTW, her name was Elizabeth.