Grandmother's Eulogy Excerpts

I wrote this for my grandmother's funeral yesterday. It was difficult to write, because so many of my recent memories of her happened after Alzheimer's had robbed her of last years:

"If we had all day, there are a hundred different things I would say about my grandmother to give you a glimpse of what it was like to grow up in her presence. I would tell you about her subtle grace in passing along some of life’s hardest truths sandwiched between a knowing wink and an ear-to-ear smile. I’d tell you the ways she showed me more in a handful of years about the joy of a lifetime of sacrifice than I could hope for in my own lifetime.

If we had all day, I’d tell you how as a child of the Great Depression she knew the value of a dollar, or, as a VA nurse, the price of freedom. We could talk about my grandmother the activist; no cause too small, no opponent too large.

But while those traits may be the hallmarks of her legacy, talking about them wouldn’t be what she wanted. In fact, if my grandmother heard even an inkling of that she would surely reach for the mute button just like she did every time a commercial came on TV. 'Rubbish,' she’d say. Like clothes in any colors other than red, white, or blue, grandiosity did not suit her."

Then I told the squirrel story posted here.

"You’re probably wondering just why she’d want me to tell you that story. After all, maiming small rodents isn’t the stuff of eulogies. The reason is because of her many marvelous traits, her sense of humor was my favorite. When she first moved to the South and I had the privilege of getting to know her as an adult, we laughed about that particular moment until I was worried she’d keel over. Memere had a laugh that would be embarrassing for those around her if it weren’t so utterly genuine. It was the kind of laugh that makes others laugh, even when they don’t know what they are laughing about.

I still hear it when I see parents playing in the pool with their children and I remember how hard she laughed when the men in the family would team up to throw Uncle Richard in the pool.

It’s a laughter I hear every time I play cards with my family and remember how long it took us to get through a simple game of hearts because she’d be laughing so uncontrollably.

It’s a laughter I hear when I tease my mother about how hard I had it growing up and she laughs. Just like memere used to when mom did the same thing to her.

Twenty-five years later and thousands of miles away from Billerica, Massachusetts, we gathered around her bedside and remembered the squirrels. And though her pneumonia-riddled lungs made it impossible for her do the same, I know inside she was laughing just as hard as we were.

While that laughter is quiet now, here at least, it is as loud to me as every memory I have of her. I hope all of you had the opportunity to hear it; and that each of you will find your own way to remember it."