Less About the Menu, More About the Marriage
My final conversation with my grandmother helped forge new lessons learned about what matters.
My grandmother, Marjory (Shupe) Yost, passed away on July 11, 2018. This was three weeks to the day, and almost to the hour, after my grandfather, her husband of 70 years, did the same. I wrote about a key, final conversation with him, and the story continues, as I experienced the same increase of joy, the learning of an important lesson, with “Grandma Sweetheart” just days after my last conversation with Grandpa.
One thing about Grandma was that she was in charge. Yes, “Marge is in Charge” might say it best, and this would be in full effect for our family gatherings. There would be no shortage of food, and really it might be less about whether we could all have plenty to eat, and more about whether there was a small- to medium-sized country located somewhere near the equator that could be fed with all the leftovers. If we had worked out shipping and logistics, I’m pretty sure we could have pulled that off. Grandma would have the menu handled, and would be hustling and bustling with the other ladies (especially my aunts and my mom) to execute the perfect game plan. Time after time, year after year.
Grandma was crowned Mrs. Colorado as well, once upon a time, and perhaps this explains that. Producer! Go-getter!
Make no mistake, however, about her love, as the one thing that stands out most to me was 40 years of smiles. For my entire life, every single time I saw her, she was delighted to see me and would smile the brightest smile, “Hi, Daniel!” In the early days it was, “How’s my sweetheart!?” and that’s why her real name (as far as I and my brother are concerned) is Grandma Sweetheart. Truthfully, I do not remember one single time where such a delighted response was missing from our reunion.
When I wrote about my last conversation with Grandpa, I bewailed the tardiness of my understanding of this simple concept of depth, this commitment to dig a little deeper for some nuggets under the surface that, it turns out, lead to a treasure trove. That lesson, learned at the final moment, carried over to my last conversation with Grandma.
I’d rather not dwell on the circumstances. Suffice it to say that her final days were marked by declining health and resulting suffering. In the midst of that trial, though, I had opportunity to ask a good question.
The question I would have otherwise asked, and I’m pretty sure I did ask a million times prior, would have concerned “the logistics.” I’d have said, “Grandma, what did you eat today? Did you get enough? Could you please eat just a little something?”
I would have been concerned for her health, for her strength, and for her physical comfort. And why not? Of course we’d be yearning for improvements in those! Here’s a lady who’d spent her whole life taking care of us, and why wouldn’t we ensure she was getting enough to eat? That’s a good thing.
But a better thing in these hours was deeper, below the apparent surface.
“Grandma, tell me about the wedding day.”
Ah! Even in her weakened condition, here came the grin! And even when speech wasn’t flowing easily and the budget for words was tight, she spent freely. It was a wonderful day, September 21, 1947, and Grandpa and her sped happily away in a 1936 Ford car — a blue one with four doors. They went to Estes Park and then onward from there to California, having a wonderful time throughout. She reminisced, and it seemed she was transported there. She insisted that there were photos of the car and she was eager to dig them out. I reassured her that we had her albums over at my parents’ house and could pursue that later, and that she needn’t be concerned to find them right now. As she grinned from the beautiful memories, she also quietly and solemnly whispered that she missed Grandpa dearly.
Through my tears, here was a golden moment found on a simple journey down a path whose road sign read “Meaning and Joy Ahead.” It began by putting off the usual urge to fuss over the daily logistics and put on the desire to dig deeper, to ask a question about something truly meaningful in her life.
Here again, while I bemoan the decades it took me to “get it,” I rejoice in a last chance to hit on something right.
That was our final conversation, and now she’s no longer missing Grandpa.
