Goodbye, Grandma

My beloved grandmother died early Saturday morning. I didn't write about it yesterday because, truth be told, the reality hadn't yet sunk in. And even though I was there with her, holding her hand when she slipped away, I still can't quite believe she's gone.

She was 93 years old and, for a 93-year-old, strong as an ox. In fact, she was out working in her garden -- probably her greatest source of joy, aside from the library books that she devoured like chocolates -- two days before she died. It was the first time in her life that she'd ever been in the hospital for anything other than giving birth.

She was one of a brood of kids born to Swedish parents and raised, somewhat inexplicably, in an Irish neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. She was stuck for too many years in an awful marriage and raised four children, less than perfectly by her own admission and theirs. I think she was just trying to get by herself. But once she was finally free of her miserable marriage, she was able to take off her emotional armor and open up. It was thrilling to hear her find her voice at last.

She had six grandkids and six great-grandkids who she doted on. She adored her roses, made better use of a library card than anyone I have ever known (her love of reading was probably the greatest gift that she passed down to the three generations of women that followed her), and gobbled candy like a child.

Her mind was sharp until the very end, and she was the only 93-year-old I know who could comfortably surf the internet and pepper her loved ones with email. In fact, she sent me a message a week or two ago, gently teasing me for featuring a $15 wax apple on this blog, when she had a whole bowl of wax fruit that had been purchased for a dollar. She loved Frank Sinatra and she always served lima beans with dinner, and I always think of her when I eat them, or hear him. I miss her terribly already.

I felt incredibly loved by her. I hope with all my heart that she knew how very much she was loved, too.