eulogy to Dorothy Claire

One would think that death gets easier with the fourth grandparent. Then you realize that each grandparent brings something different to your life – something you can’t replace with simple substitution. Who was grandma to me? If only I had a one-word answer – I might actually be able to read this. To me, Grandma was: the snake in the grass at bridge; she was the witty wizard at scrabble; she was the lover of fish and chips, not to mention the ocean. She was the one who always had an extra sausage and gravy on the stove. She gardened, she danced, she traveled, she shopped, she invited, she hosted, she boasted, she listened, she encouraged, she laughed, she nurtured, she liked cats, she did crosswords, and most of all, she loved.

I feel so lucky. Traveling with Grandma, the world was our oyster. England, France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, New York, Yellowstone, Bandon, gardening in Etna, and Sacramento for the Scottish Games were some of our most legendary times. We even spent almost two months in a car together. To see her giggle over wine in Covarubbias, Spain, or relax along the Algarve in Portugal, or stare at peace into the ocean over Bandon…I realize I have had the privilege of knowing her true spirit in a way that most kids never know their grandparents. Enough people have tried to discount my grief because it’s only my Grandmother – what they don’t know is that my Grandmother was not just the one with pink and white animal cookies in the orangey-prismed cookie jar. She was she there for my whole family during multiple times of need, she was a second mom, a force behind my first car, a funder of my college education, and one of the reasons I escaped the torture of being grounded for my first and only major house party.

As I compose this, I realize the sticky on my keyboard is from salty tears. Now, while I may be crying at our loss, at the seeming injustice of the last few months, I’ve had the rare privilege of seeing my family at their strongest. It’s at those moments of despair when I realize how much of Grandma has already transcended the wooden coffin that keeps her safe below ground. I realize her legacy is more than long life, story telling and hospitality – it’s the very fabric of our being.

I look at her eldest, my Aunt Terri. In her home, I find music, style, a love of dancing and entertaining
I look at her twins. My Aunt Gail – there is no place that welcomes more. The Farmhouse is always the place of an extra sausage on the stove or a pie to satiate afternoon nibbles.
I see my own parents’ house and realize they are carrying on Grandma’s sense of adventure, and her crazy ability to throw the kids in the car and go – anytime, anywhere.
In my cousin Tricia, I see Grandma’s attention to detail, her supportive motherhood.
In Stephanie, I see her love of the beach.
In Nick, Christian and Matt, I see her love of music and dancing
In Todd and Kyle, I see the skill of drawing and designing
In Tyler I see the artistry and the skill of cooking & baking – as well as the soul that is often misunderstood and sacrifices some dreams to conform to what the world has demanded.
And in myself, I see the performer, the achiever, the lamenter – wishing that I had taken the time to do a late in life photo project of her. She was always so beautiful – and loved the spotlight – I wanted to bring it to her.

I’ve heard it said that Grandmas are moms with lots of frosting. Indeed, for grandma as well, I think the relationship was sweet like no other. On her infamous 12 cylinder Gold Cadillac that got 6 miles on a good day downhill, Grandma used to sport a bumper sticker: “If I knew grandkids were this much fun, I’d have had them first.” I always wanted to tell her: If I had known Grandparents were so influential, I would have asked to be born sooner so I could know them in their youth. Then again maybe Grandchildren are blessed with the timing of their arrival – by their birth, Grandparents have finally gotten to a point in their life when they’re people worthy of influence.

Every ring on a tree, every dent in the bumper, every scar on the soul. Each wound defines ourselves and our legacy. But in remembering the luck and love that Grandma’s very spirit and presence has borne, I understand my birthright. I realize that the trauma of her death is not her defining moment; the spirit and love that she’s passed on to us is…