My earliest memory of my grandmother was her feeding me, a hyperactive, couch-jumping, ADDish child, pork rinds in the living room of her townhome in Philly.
My last was me feeding her, a tired but still spirited and dignified woman, beans and quiche in the hospital.
And in between, a lifetime of moments that I have replayed over and over in my mind.
My grandmother died this weekend. It wasn't unexpected, it was something the family had been preparing ourselves for ever since she was admitted to the hospital in August. Maybe that's why it didn't hit with the hammer blow I'd been girding myself for. It sunk in, slowly and painfully. When the tears eventually came, they moved just as slow.
I found it hard to tell people. In fact, I didn't. I don't know if it was something I was ready to face, but now, I guess I don't have a choice.
I think that I'd like to share the little I knew about her, for there was so much that I missed.
My grams could make me always make me smile. I inherited the same mischevious nature that she had. I can remember sitting at the dinner table at my parents, after she had come to live with us a few years ago, and watching her stir up trouble. She delighted in needling both my dad and step-mom, saying something - anything - she knew would get their goat, then miraculously just exude this aura of innocence as she brought up this "Well, don't blame me. I'm just a doddering old lady" facade. I enjoyed watching that. And (sorry D&M), sometimes, I even encouraged and/or initiated it.
It wasn't until she came to live with my dad that I truly got to know her. He'd always encouraged me to spend time with her, going through scrapbooks and photo albums, and now, I understand why.
The story of her and my grandfather is one too lengthy to get into here, but suffice to say, it had all the elements of a classic story: Young love, separation, reunion, and tragedy. My grandma ended up raising two sons by herself in urban Philadelphia, living in the same house for nearly 60 years on Kimball street. She, by sheer force of will, provided the base from which the two Adams boys vaulted themselves out of the ghetto into successful, professional lives.
She endeared herself to anyone who met her. Her charm was undeniable. She had a way with words, too. Like when she first moved in, back in 2002, and I came down for a visit. She hadn't seen me in years, and made the remark "Oh, Jake. You're soooo handsome. Just like your father used to be."
And then, after the briefest of pauses, and a twinkle in her eye, she added. "Before he got faaaat."
It was hilarious to me. I saw, for the first time, that she was definitely my father's mother. Who else would talk to a six-foot-eight, 300-pound black man like that? I saw him as his mother's son for the first time.
Her old church in Philadelphia, which she attended for something ridiculous, like the past 70 years, sent her weekly sermons on tape, along with the church newsletter and newspaper clippings. Her stack of mail at our house from friends back in Philly was equally ridiculous, but she dutifully answered them all.
Memories: She always remembered birthdays, sending me a cheque for $10 every year until I was 16. She watched football, baseball and basketball, always rooting for the Philly teams. She loved to dress up. She loved dangly earrings and chocolate. No matter how much she protested that she wasn't hungry, she always found room for Mary's cooking at dinner time.
I know that death comes for us all, but it seems the lesson of mortality is one that is one that we must re-learn over and over. My dad and Mary were there at the end, and for that I am truly grateful. For as much love as she showered upon us during her time on this earth, I'm glad there were people there to usher her to the next plane with the same love.
Until we meet again, grandma.
