We lost my grandmother three years ago today. This is the eulogy I gave at her funeral.
When
I was a little girl just learning to talk, my grandmother would not allow me to
call her grandma. “I’m not old enough to be a grandma,” she told me, in
complete defiance of her new role. This posed quite a dilemma for my young
mind. What do you call the woman who won’t let you call her grandma? Though I
don’t even remember doing it, I named her L’il Grandma, which somehow took the
sting out of grandma for her. And L’il Grandma she’s been in our family ever
since.
While
this seems cruel and unfair, I force myself to remember that I am blessed to
have three decades of wonderful memories with my grandmother. There are so many
things that I will always remember about L’il Grandma. She spoiled me as only a
grandmother can when I was little. Her kitchen was always stocked with treats
for me and my sister and brother. She was the one who gave me my first car the
summer before I started college. A quirky ’86 Dodge Colt that wouldn’t run when
it rained. She was at my wedding almost seven years ago today. And I’ve never
seen her happier than when she was playing with her great-grandsons. For the
past five years L’il Grandma has been our official family photographer, chasing
after my two little boys with more energy than I can often muster myself. And
she always developed two sets of pictures, so she had a set for me.
L’il
Grandma hosted many holiday meals and baked countless cakes, pies, cookies and
squares. I’ve never met anyone who did more Christmas baking. There were always
a dozen types of cookies, expertly decorated for every relative, friend and
neighbor. She could have given Martha Stuart a run for her money. Her panucci
squares are legendary in our family. They disappear with lightening speed, one
person always blaming another for eating more than their share.
It is hard for me to accept that there will be no more panucci squares; no more lunches at Chelo’s, grandma ordering the lite chicken sandwich or dinner; no more summer days at Breezey Acres in Douglas with L’il Grandma in her sun hat, camera in hand; my five-year old won’t be asking what surprise Great Mooma has in her pocket; and hardest of all, I know that my two-year old will only remember her through pictures and the stories we tell him.
But through this sharp sense of pain and loss, I want to remember to celebrate
the 75 years of my grandmother’s life; to remember that she was a woman who
never let life get her down. I celebrate the more than 40 years she spent
teaching generations of kindergarteners and first graders. I applaud the
decades she spent volunteering for The Lord Provides. I thank her for the
hundreds and possibly thousands of photos she’s taken of generations of our
family. And I search in myself for some of her strength to pull me through this
overwhelming sorrow and pain.
Over
the past week, I’ve found there are reminders of my grandmother everywhere. I
still have the pan I need to return to her in my kitchen and a few panucci
sqaures in my freezer. When I was feeling sad the other day, I realized the
chocolate I was eating she had given me. The perfume I used this morning was a
Christmas gift from grandma. I know it is this way for all of us who loved her
and were a part of her life.
As a mother of two little boys, I am not allowed to dwell on my grandmother’s passing for too long without life pulling me back to the busy reality. And for that I am grateful. Life goes on, and it is my job to take care of my children. They are, after all, my grandmother’s legacy. I will tell my boys stories of their Mooma Alice. How she loved them and held them, laughed with them and played with them. How she was loud and funny, and was never afraid to speak her mind. L’il Grandma will continue to live in our hearts and our memories. We will carry her with us always.
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