Nellie Catherine
I celebrate today, June 1, as a remembrance of my Grandmama. She was a head of her time and one of a kind.
***
At 3 a.m. in
the morning, everyone was sleeping soundly. My Grandmama and Pa were
visiting, sleeping in the middle room of my parents' house, the guest room.
Obviously not everyone was sleeping soundly. Without even a whisper
but a blood curdling scream saved only for life-threatening moments, Grandmama
sat up in bed in the pitch dark night, screaming, "GUNTER, WHERE'S MY
PURSE???" All the lights flew on, the commotion putting the rest of
the house in "danger" mode, sending everyone else scurrying to a
fallout shelter. It is funny now but to live it was another matter.
Grandmama could be kind and gentle but she could also flip a switch that
brought every other activity to a halt or sleeping neighborhoods to attention.
The purse was found. She always had a thing about her beautiful
bags. Somehow, I may have inherited both of these qualities.
Sometimes I
think my lot in life is unpacking boxes. Boxes from remodeling or boxes
moved to the garage for temporary safe keeping. Ah, the garage. The
glorious repository of all things without quick solutions. Easy out.
Just open the kitchen door and pitch. Maybe a professional
organizer is in my future.
But good
things do come in forgotten boxes. I recently found the box holding
souvenirs I have collected from my grandmother's life. This is not a huge
collection because she was the sort of person who had just what she needed and
little excess except for dinnerware and family correspondence. The
original place for everything.
NRE
(1909-2003) started out with a holler, on a hot, summer day in Pine Bluff,
Arkansas, after the doctor had asked her father whose life to save, the
mother's or the baby's. The delivery left small scars on her little head.
She was quickly wrapped and placed on a table, unattended, while the
doctor and his helper labored to save her mother. Cassie was spared but
would never have any more babies. At some point, as the story has been
told for years, the neglected baby made herself known with a big cry. And
thus, she continued for her ninety-three years, feisty and much loved from day
one.
We shared a
close relationship and could talk about almost anything. Others insisted
I was her favorite but I had no control in being the first grandchild born and
sharing her middle name. When I was fifteen, she shocked me for the first
time. We were walking in a dwindling downtown area. One store
offered nothing but bare mannequins posed for the empty streets.
Grandmama whispered to me, "Somebody really told her where to stick
it." I never saw her in the same way again.
Before I left
for college, I drove to visit my grandparents. She loved to shop but
always with a purpose in mind. Always the best and always her brand.
Going out required her to go upstairs to put on her rings, grab her purse
and get her credit card (which she paid in full each month). We went to
the local boutique where my mother had bought her wedding dress years earlier.
Grandmama said yes to three dresses for my college wardrobe. Her
generosity was famous.
She also
shared a story about her first few days in college. Her beauty was
well-known and preceded her to school. Upon her arrival, the captain of
the football team made her acquaintance and offered her any and everything on
campus, with one proposition. Again, I was shocked. But this was
her warning to me about the dangers lurking in college.
Family
genealogy was a natural talent. Every introduction included "your
people" and her ability to know the chain of relations of dozens of people
and families. She would have loved computers for genealogy. Her
family was precious to her and she always cherished the life she had had with
her parents.
To the penny
and with a sharp pencil, she kept up with all of my grandparents' business,
from running a hotel to tracking the stock market. My grandparents' love
story began in college. Once they married, they were equals in life and
work. Her business acumen was well advanced for a woman of her time.
Almost every visit, a large ledger was offered to family members for
viewing stock fluctuations, dividends and net worth. In another era, she
could have climbed the corporate ladder.
Division among
the ranks as to her cooking. I remember being a child and wondering if my
Grandmama cooked. Didn't they all? When she was young, her mother
cooked. When newly married, the deli cooked. Running hotels and
raising small children, the kitchen cooked. And my Pa cooked. But
she cooked potato salad. Pot roast. Meatloaf. Vegetable soup.
Angelfood cake. Applesauce salad. Divinity and fruitcake
cookies. Squash casserole. Turnips. Mrs. Smith's Apple Pie.
Popcorn. Fritos. Dr. Pepper. Nobody starved.
Every morning
of her life, she ate a banana, half a grapefruit, a bowl of Grape Nuts, orange
juice and coffee. Must have been the right combination. She saw her
doctors when necessary or for check-ups. The only time she was
hospitalized was when her two children were born. When she died, she had
never had any surgery or broken bones and was taking one or two prescriptions.
You can be
feisty and independent all of your life. The same will that got you off
the table on day one can carry you almost to the end. With good
health, luck and care, you can grow old and wise. But being feisty
or stubborn will not prevent the spider webs of dementia from running through
your mind.
Stubbornness
will make you say you don’t need help. You don’t care if you lay at
the bottom of the stairs dead for days. You don’t need any medicine
at all. You can’t turn the dining room into a downstairs bedroom.
You can lie in your gown tail in bed all week. You will fight
desperately, verbally, physically, and emotionally to not go to a nursing home.
Dementia makes
you call the police if your caregiver aggravates you. You throw books at
people you care about. You scream and cry to get attention.
You lose the battle and enter a nursing home. You tell strangers you
don’t have on underwear. You call your daughter Mama.
You don’t remember being married. You think your parents are still
living. You deny your ninety-three years.
The last years
of a very old person’s life are often not the true picture of that
person. The wonderful people who took care of her didn't know who she
really was. They did not see the beautiful face that broke hearts, or the
fun loving, young mother and wife. They did not see the countless hours
she spent serving at the Red Cross in WWII. Or the years running a hotel
or helping at church. Her sturdy shoes and turtlenecks belied the once
stunning figure, impeccably dressed. They did not know she helped her
father and mother-in-law when they were sick and dying. Or that Grandmama
was sitting next to her mother when she died suddenly, unexpectedly.
She was the
oldest person I have ever known. I always wanted to ask her what it was
like to be so close to heaven. Burt's grandfather had just died and I
needed to pack. But before leaving, I felt like making the trip to see
Grandmama. The difference in a week was dramatic. She had never
been this way before. She was leaning over in her wheelchair. It was
hard for her to talk so I did all the talking. We held hands the whole
time. She would squeeze my hands and look at me. I know she knew
me. I poured my heart out to her about how much she was loved, my
admiration of her. What a wonderful life she had lived. I talked
about all of her family waiting in heaven. As much as I would miss her, I
gave her permission to let go. Four days later, I rushed from a funeral
in another state to be by her side but she left before I could get there.
When she was
born, her father had smallpox and was quarantined in a shed. He was
allowed to come to the glass window and peer in at his new baby.
Love at first sight. Grandmama always had a wealth of love and
attention. And she returned the same.
