Celebrating Life
I’m going to take a break from writing about writing today. Instead, with my grandmother’s Celebration of Life this weekend, I thought I’d talk a little about her. Because fuck if I can talk about these memories in person, and hopefully this’ll get the emotions out because I have to lead the damn ceremony and I can’t very well do that if I’m crying the whole time.
Most of my memories are amalgamations of the many, many times Mormor and I did things together. I slept over frequently as a child, and I still have dreams about that house. It was tucked back in the woods, small like a cottage, with bright forest creeping in from all sides. And it was always bright, always green, full of birdsong. Deer would sometimes wander into the backyard, and one notable time, she found a cow out there. Everything smelled like old house. We sewed together, and she taught me how to make clothing from patterns. She made the best macaroni and cheese and I have yet to figure out how to replicate it. I feel the secret must be, like, swiss cheese or gruyere or something else an adult would never tell a kid is in their precious mac and cheese.
All the Christmases at the old house blend together, and all the Christmases at the new one. I wasn’t good at cooking but I helped, and I skipped all the dinner-style Swedish food and went right to the spritz butter cookies and pepakakas and mini cupcakes, the tiniest cupcakes you’ve ever seen, with buttercream frosting and questionably edible silver ball sprinkles that could break your tooth.
Every time she came over for a party. Fourth of July. Birthdays. Lobster dinners (that I again wouldn’t eat, and would go straight to the dessert). Every time we went to the beach. Every dance recital when I was a kid, and every school play and musical when I was less of a kid.
I could list a hundred specific memories, ones that don’t get lost in the jumble of dozens of Christmases or lunches or theaters. But I’ll tell you about two, real quick. Maybe two and a half, since it’s related.
When I was about 12, and had a crush on every boy, a certain relative made fun of me for it. Morm, in her infinite wisdom, gently told them that there was nothing wrong with that. That I could love whoever I wanted, and I should, and it was never anything to be ashamed of. She wasn’t talking to me, but she made sure I heard her. I don’t know if that relative felt properly put in their place, but I did. I was given permission to feel what I felt, and even if I still had to mask it from some people, I didn’t have to hide it from myself. Or from her.
More recently, she had done some spring cleaning and found some items she wanted me to have. It wasn’t a pile of knickknacks that she presented to everyone and urged them to take what they wanted. It was just a few things, wall hangings, Swedish stuff, that she had set aside because she wanted me to have them. Most of it made sense. The Scandinavian books and decorations for sure, since I was the only relative interested in that part of the family history (I mean, I translated a book about it, did you know?). But one item…one item was something of a puzzler. A wall hanging: circular like a plate, but made of clay and carved, like a bas relief, painted in a dark teal. The scene was a basement or tavern, stone walls, wooden table, big beer keg. A pirate-looking guy sat on a bench with a lady in his lap, facing him, and another guy stood behind her. All three had steins of beer.
“Morm,” I asked, “what even is this thing?”
There are no universes in which I would have guessed what she was going to say. I could live a million lifetimes and still not have a clue. She said,
“This is my favorite piece of art. I just love it. And I want you to have it.”
“But…what is even happening here? What is it? Where did you get it?”
She cocked her head at me. “They’re having a good time, Jackii!”
That’s all the explanation I got.
I suppose she had already explained it to me years before, when a few days after my wedding, she told me I needed a boyfriend. Thinking she was having a senior moment, I explained that I had just married my boyfriend. “No,” she said. “I know that. I mean you need more boyfriends.”
I could share more memories, but I’m selfish. They’re mine. I have a couple more in poem form, in my upcoming book, The Fish, The Twins, The Ram, which I’m trying really hard to publish this summer. There are so many obligations between now and then. It’s a little overwhelming. But Mormor would believe I can do it. So I will.