Whiskey, Sushi & a Granddaughter’s Hope
My grandmothers died before my first book was published. I had always wanted to honor them in some way, and I still feel guilty that I waited until I was in my late thirties to write a book that I was able to dedicate to them. I know they would have been proud of my effort, even if the fantasy book I wrote might have been puzzling to their sense of literature.
My grandmothers were kick-ass women at a time when being ballsy wasn’t seen as a feminine quality. For instance, when divorce was considered a dirty word and murmured behind closed doors, my Canadian grandmother was making it on her own with three kids. On the other side, my Japanese-American grandmother was the matriarch who held everyone together through rivalries and bitter fights, so it’s no wonder that our extended family fell apart after her death.
While both had very long lives, my Canadian grandmother passed away just before I was supposed to visit her in Alberta. After recovering from a fall, she fell asleep one night and never woke up. It was a faraway and unexpected death, and seemed unreal because of the distance and surprise of it. Even today, I almost think that if I dial her 780 number, she will pick up with her slightly whimsical tone and say cheerfully, “Hello, dear.”
Her memorial was an extravaganza. The whole family gathered together — a multitude of…
