Grandma Evelyn

My grandmother died this weekend. She’s my father’s mother, but I haven’t seen her in years. She had a stroke several years ago, and I know that she was having a hard time even recognizing my dad of late. Thankfully, it sounds like she didn’t suffer long. As I look down the face of my 30th birthday, it scares me to think that, ultimately, my body too will simply shut down.

But for now, I can remember my grandmother. She lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, for the majority of my life. The summer I was eight, I flew by myself for the first time to visit her. I spent a few days with her in her small apartment, roasting in the Minnesota heat.

I remember sitting by the screened window, trying to stay cool in the absence of air conditioning. Grandma sat in her chair, quietly doing her crosswords. Almost every night a tornado warning was issued, sounding loudly from the local emergency towers. Grandma and I diligently hunkered down in the basement of her building for hours with other residents. Grandma read her Reader’s Digest as we listened to the radio. A neighbor brought down her cat, who, knowing that Grandma wasn’t much for cats, spent the entire evening trying to get her attention.

When Grandma would visit us in California, she did everything and went everywhere with us. She couldn’t drive, and never got her license because there was always one of her seven kids or 10+ grandchildren around to do it for her. I thought it was odd (who wouldn’t want to drive?) but I think she was just old-fashioned.

I remember how she always smelled sweet, and always had her hair permed. I remember her purple hair pick lying in the bathroom we would share when she stayed with us.

I remember how her chin moved when she laughed, and anyone laughing with her could tell that she was really tickled.

I remember how my other grandmother called her “Evy,” even though no one else ever seemed to call her that.

I remember how she “tsked” at any risque moments on the television or at a saucy story—remnants of her conservative background.

I remember how strange it was to hear her call my dad “Glenn,” or even “Glenny,” and to understand that this diminutive woman was my dad’s mother.

From what I know of her, Grandma worked hard her entire life for her husband, her children. She didn’t have the luxury of a college education or a lot of money. But she was sweet, and easygoing, and sent me cards on my birthday. And she was my grandma. She’ll be missed.