My Grandmother.
Even Our Memories Come With Choices.
My grandmother died yesterday afternoon, May 26, 2016.
In 1913, the zipper was leading edge technology and patented that year.
Henry Ford started producing his Model T’s on the world’s first assembly line.
The first crossword puzzle was introduced.
And my great-grandmother, Rose Genest, gave birth to Germaine, my grandmother, on May 23rd.
Germaine (“Memere” to her grandchildren) lived 103 years and four days.
And she was feisty, salty, strongly opinionated and highly irreverent for just about every one of them.
I’ve been telling people for years that I learned how to argue because of her.
She’d try to force her views and opinions on me and I’d resist, often with fervor. One year, we fought for an entire summer.
We worked at the same company, a factory that made tools; she in the office and I in the maintenance department. This was my summer job that year.
I’d pick her up in the morning in my new 1970 Honda to drive her to work, and we’d argue during the entire trip.
At the end of the work day, we’d pick up where we left off and argue all the way home.
This became status quo for June, July and August, only to be reprieved in September when I left the job to start my senior year in high school.
She didn’t want me to get married four years later.
She didn’t like black people. At all. This was what we argued about most often. And this was the reason I asked my best friend, Melvin, who was black, to be the best man at my wedding.
Yes, my grandmother taught me how to argue. She taught me how to recognize bigotry, bias, and manipulation.
But these are not the things that I began to think about when my mother called me yesterday to tell me that Memere had died.
I began remembering all of the other things she taught me.
She taught me unconditional love and affection.
She helped raise me and my four younger brothers. When my mother became a single mom after my father left when I was seven, and had her hands more than full with my brothers, I’d often go upstairs to see Memere.
It was her food I ate when I was hungry.
It was her arms that would hug me when I needed one, and even when I didn’t.
It was her bed I’d climb into when nightmares invaded sleep.
It was she who taught me the names of every bird at the lake.
It was her voice that taught me how to pray.
These are the things that I recalled after my mother phoned me with the news of her passing.
These are the things that I chose to remember. And these are the things I’ll miss most when I think of her now.
Rest in peace, Memere. And thank you for everything you taught me.
