Passing the baton...

My grandma died yesterday.  I had hoped she would live to see her great-grandaughter, even if she might not have been too sure about who she was and where she fit into the family tree.  But she was 99 and tired.  I am selfishly sad because I will miss her terribly.  And also blessedly happy because she was ready to die as she and I discussed so many times.  Yesterday was also my father's birthday who was her only child and who looked after her like Florence Nightingale in his home until her death.  Death was always just out of her reach and I like to think that at the end she did have some control and timing over her departure after all, choosing to be alone with my dad on his birthday.  

She always used to wonder out loud why she was living so long and for awhile I had wonderful, easy answers for her.  "You have to teach me to crochet.  You have to attend my wedding.  you need to meet your great-grandchildren."  Then, as she got older the answers got harder.  Her eyesight and hearing got worse, her mobility decreased, her memory shortened, and I came up with lamer and lamer answers like "you have to finish this crossword puzzle" or "you need to have dinner with me."  Until finally for the last year or so, she would ask me the question again, and I was forced to say "I don't know, Grandma."  Because I really didn't.

99 is a lot of years.  I put myself to sleep last night making a chronological list of all of the things she had witnessed in her lifetime.  There's the usual old person list: several wars, the advent of cars, the Depression, man on the moon, computers and the internet.  But I also thought of trivial things - tissues in a box, polyester, credit cards, ball point pens, tampons.  So many things that changed and then changed again while she grew up, grew out, grew old.  

It is easiest for me when remembering people, to use my sense of smell.  My Grandma never wore fragrance at all but the smell of Pond's cold cream makes me feel like she's standing next  to me.  She also used to make this divine beef soup whenever we would visit her in Pennsylvania.  One of those quintessential grandmother soups that take all day to do right and that nobody has the time to make anymore.  She would stir that soup all say, skimming fat off the top, adding vegetables and herbs.  When we arrived at her house, the smell was intoxicating.  She kept the noodles separate in a blue bowl, boiled and ready to spoon in to the broth.  I always wondered why they were separate.  Did they get overcooked if she added them later?  Did someone along the line prefer no noodles and it became habit to serve them separately?  I'll never know because I never asked.

Brown butter, too.  What is it with eastern Europeans and brown butter?  My grandparents put it on everything.  It's such a unique, evocative smell for me, but it's richness was an acquired taste.  Not until I was older did I learn to love the flavor of it drizzled over the handmade potato pierogi my grandma made.   One of us always left her house with a case of the runs and we were all usually 5 lbs. heavier.  But man, they were good.

So, I'll look for her dark eyes in the face of my daughter.  Ochi chyornye, like my grandfather used to sing.  And hope that maybe Grandma brushed past her on her way out and my daughter's way in. Rubbing off a gift or two, like in the fairy tale.  Her easy, contagious laugh,  her fierce desire to constantly be learning despite her 6th grade education, or her love of music and singing.  The circle of  it humbles me as I think of her in labor with my dad 66 years ago yesterday, pacing and worrying about his birth.  And here I am, my due date has come and almost gone, but I am just as heavy with my child all these years later, just as anticipatory, just as scared.  

I am forced to be patient for the little life inside me to find her way out in her own time, as my Grandma was forced to be patient in laying down her own burden of such a long life, long after she was tired of carrying it.  I am so glad she is gone, I only wish I could have been there to tell her she was dying while it was happening.  It sounds macabre and heartless, but I know her well enough, that she would have been so happy to hear the news.  Relieved and happy.  But maybe she already knew.