We're entering the season of birthdays around here, so expect a few more posts along these lines. Today is my Grandma Mercedes' birthday. My mom's mom. She would have been 92. She died in August, three years ago, just over a month after turning 89.
She made all of her grandchildren quilts. I'm the youngest grandchild and my quilt had been sent out to be finished (she did the cross-stitching and had someone else do the quilting and binding.) when she got sick. She never saw it finished, and at her funeral so many of her friends (the church ladies) were so sorry that they didn't have it for me. I went back to her hometown the following month to help my mom finish packing up her apartment and the quilt was waiting for me. It felt good to have it happen that way, connecting me with her even after she was gone.
She was an amazing cook and baker - the kind who could taste a dish and tell you what was in it. Her corn pudding ("makes a nice dish to take to a pot luck") is not to be believed. Thank God I have the recipe because it made our neighbor Tyler nearly swoon. Next time I make it, I'll post the recipe so you can swoon too. No peach cobbler was made without extra crust for piecrust cookies, and I make her thumbprint cookies every year at Christmas.
I have quite a few of her things and use them a lot. The juicer that's been (I think) featured here and above I use at least once a week.
When packing up her apartment, my mom and I had a minor battle over who got this pitcher. We'd left it undecided, but when all the stuff I chose was shipped to me and the pitcher was inside, I was thrilled. It gets a lot of use around here too.
This painting of my dad's, which now sits on my mantle, hung in her dining room for years. I love that it's his and hers and now mine. It symbolizes to me how much she loved and accepted my dad (a hippie artist!) for who he was.
She was the only child of distantly affectionate parents (making Callum a 4th generation only) and as a little girl she survived this.
When her husband (my maternal granddad) developed rheumatoid arthritis and had to stop working, she did some research and opened a children's clothing store called The Weathervane Shop. Her shop thrived (and paid the bills) for years. I could expect Christmas and Easter dresses from her every year. I'm sure that's a big part of why I love clothes so much (you'll have to tune back in for a post on my Grandma Charlotte to see another big part!)
She was a staunch democrat and would be thrilled to have Barak Obama as her senator. He was elected the year she died, and it's a shame she didn't get to vote for him. Her faith guided her feelings, both political and personal, and she encouraged her daughter (my mom) to join their minister at the March on Washington for civil rights. Didn't someone make a speech there? It was 1963, I think...
Once mad at a story about a boy who "done me wrong" (my first hint never to date Steves), she told me that she'd tell him to "goose it up his ass."
One year, I was a tween maybe, some cousins were visiting me, and my slightly older cousin Jennifer and Grandma and I shared a room. Someone (not me, of course) let loose this little fart that sent Jennifer and me into fits of giggles. Perhaps she decided to teach us some clearly lacking decorum, so Grandma trotted out the phrase, "pass gas." We'd never heard it before, but oh my GOD, way, way funnier than "fart." The room would go quiet until someone would whisper "pass gas," and all three of us would be sent off into giggles again.
Animals loved her. They sense a kindred spirit, I think. We had one fierce attack-Australian Shepherd growing up who barked her dang-fool head off if someone even thought about our front door and made it tricky for me to have friends over. My Grandma would show up after a six-month absence, and Molly would turn into a wagging, licking, wreathed-in-smiles tub of love. That kind of love worked for her great-granddogs too. When Neel and I moved to California, we drove our sheltie-border collie mix Phoebe across the country with us, stopping in Illinois on the way. Grandma had a bird named Ditto at the time who had free-rein of the house. When we ran into some hotel trouble (were dogs allowed?), she grew indignant and said, "Well, she can stay here..." That sentence has turned into a declaration of love in my family.
These are photos of our guest room. We call it the lavendar room around here. It's a sweet room, (I hope) cozy and restful the way a guestroom should be. My grandmother's favorite color was purple, and it wasn't until after her death that I realized that so much of that room reflected her. The bed and dresser were hers, the painting over the bed came to me when she died. When I went to put the quilt on the bed, I was terrified to discover a pee stain...probably Phoebe, I don't think it's been on the bed since Lucy got here. Gingerly I washed it, thinking that of all people, Grandma wouldn't mind. She'd be glad Pheebs got some comfort for her old bones on that bed.
But here's my favorite story about my Grandma. When Neel and I were getting engaged, he was in graduate school and we were poor, poor, poor. Grandma Mercedes gave us a ring to use as an engagement ring. We'd designed a wedding ring for me that was fairly clunky and didn't look good with a solitare, so our plan was to wear the engagement ring and take it off once we were married. I wore my wedding band alone for the next eight years. The day after she died, I was home making plans, buying plane tickets and packing. I took a time out to try to settle down and watch some tv, but my nervous energy had me fussing (as it usually did) with my wedding ring. It felt funny. Like I had a crumb caught up under it. When I turned it over to investigate the band was snapped in half. As clear as anything I heard, "Wear my ring." I'm not surprised, she could often be pissy and alternately bossy (just ask my mom). So I did what she said. Took my wedding band off, put on her ring, and Neel and I decided to get a new wedding band to match. So I wear her ring. (And Dad, the fact that I can't get a decent picture of those rings is why I want a new camera!)
I love this picture of her. It was taken about four years ago, on our move back across the country. It really captures her, I think. We were at a restuarant (what was the name of that place, mom?) in a state park that served amazing food like fried chicken, green beans, corn and pudding. We were all together...my mom and dad, my aunt, all my cousins and their spouses and her two great grandsons. What a gift that must have been. When she died, all of the grandchildren had the same thought and brought their copies of this picture. It's her.
This morning Callum asked if I was sad, and I said no, not really. It's nice to think about her and remember her. I'm glad I get to do that here. Happy Birthday, Eyeore.
