I'll Think of a Catchy Title Later

About ten years ago, my paternal grandmother, Grandma Jeanne, passed away.  She was a giant figure in my childhood, and in our family, and I want to share a few reflections about her.

Thanksgiving was her holiday, which is to say, it was our holiday with her.  This was fairly significant when I was young, because she lived in California, and we were in Kentucky.  Each year, she would make the trek across the country to join us for the holiday meal.  I don’t think she missed a single one.

Her life was one of glamour and intrigue.  She married several times, including my grandfather, twice.  She was tall and elegant, always wearing huge jewelry and displaying amazing works of original art in her home.  She worked, and had some hazy ties to the mafia, eventually running into trouble with law enforcement when she refused to snitch.  I’m told that a former Las Vegas mayor still owes her lunch.

Her voice was loud, her wit was sharp, and her tone often stern.  She didn’t need to spank her kids or grandkids; after two minutes of reprimand by Grandma Jeanne, a spanking would have been a welcome reprieve.  She had two children: my dad, and a daughter who died way, way too young.  Aside from my siblings and I, she had another grandson, my cousin Jasha, and she lived just long enough to become a great-grandmother thanks to him.

In her later years, she moved to Kentucky to be closer to my dad.  We started a family tradition of having a bagel brunch at her home each Sunday.  It was an opportunity for us to spend time together as a family each week, and to really be active in each other’s lives.

She was a heavy smoker, and in her later years developed emphysema.  She couldn’t get around very easily, and soon became virtually confined to her home, dependent on a breathing machine.  As an invincible teenager, I used to smoke with her after our folks left.  Grandma and I had a special camaraderie, and we shared stories from her life, and mine.

Complications from smoking took her life, in the end, ten years ago this spring.

When she passed, I received three items to remember her by.  The first is a keychain I wove for her at summer camp as a small child, twisted bits of much-abused leather, which I still use every day.  The second is a bright orange sports coat, a relic from her glamorous days on the West Coast.  I wear it occasionally to whimsical parties, and it never fails to make an impression.

The last is a two foot high replica of a Rodin statue, depicting a man kneeling in front of a nude woman, kissing her midsection.  When we would visit Grandma Jeanne as children, she would hide that piece, since it was considered too erotic for kids.

For the longest time, both she and my dad told me it was Rodin’s “The Kiss,” but last year I learned that it is actually a different work, called “The Eternal Idol,” a small piece from his master work “The Gates of Hell.”  Funny, the disillusionment of learning that something you learned young and were very sure about was totally wrong.  Today, it sits in a place of honor on my bookshelf.

Grandma Jeanne may be gone, but she is certainly not forgotten.  I’m reminded of her style, her wit, and her contagious laugh almost every day.

One last note: after she passed, my family stopped doing Thanksgiving together.  Her last year with us was the last time my immediate family all gathered for the holiday meal.  Last November, four of us got together and decided that we need to rekindle that tradition, and with any luck, this year will bring us all together again.  Grandma Jeanne won’t be with us, except in spirit.

I’m thankful she was a part of my life.