I’m most thankful for her blueberry pie.
Or maybe her comfy, inviting house.
No. Just her.
Cliché is difficult to avoid on Thanksgiving. We’re always lectured about thankfulness. We’re not thankful enough. We’re not thankful about the right things. Et cetera. But this isn’t about any of that.
My grandmother’s seat will be empty this Thanksgiving. My first holiday without her. But when we sit down to our yams and pumpkin pie, she’ll be there. My dad has her
worrying. My sister has her humor. My mom has her motherly intuition. I have her frankness. If you haven’t noticed.
Grace Hittle was a widow; Jim died in 1989. “My Jimmy,” she called him. She lived alone, but we saw her almost every day. She was active, volunteering at a Catholic thrift store downtown. She was the best volunteer lunch lady. She read volumes on eighteenth century primitive antiques, comparing the examples to her own pristine collection. On warm summer evenings, she walked with her neighbor Betty.
Elementary school snow days were great. Grace and I piled into her small red car. Bound for the museum, our favorite place. We’d putter along, talking history, our favorite subject. We always forgot the museum’s address. Jackson Street? Jones Street? Let’s just drive around and talk, grandma. We’ll find it.
She and my sister tried to learn French. The farthest they got was je t’aime beaucoup, I love you very much. That became a sort of farewell, with a child’s kiss blown from a car window, caught by a frail, arthritic hand.
Predictably, her activity slowed. By her eighties, she couldn’t walk
with Betty. She didn’t go antiquing anymore. Her mind began to falter.
But I’d still visit often. I told her about college, my plans; she always wanted to know if I had a girlfriend. She loved to give dating advice. Sometimes I had to repeat myself. But her eyes, her smile, told me she was still aware, that she was still grandma.
Last Christmas Day, Grace fell, breaking her wrist. The final straw. For her safety, we moved her to a nursing home. I last saw her when my parents and I made our tri-weekly visit. It was a Sunday. She was 87. The dementia unit was cold, sterile. But much safer than her slippery, wooden floored house. We huddled around her, talking loudly and smiling a lot. Other patients watched with vacant stares. I told her I was graduating in May. “I’m so proud of you,” she beamed. Dementia be damned. I knew she meant it.
As we left, I kissed her on the forehead and whispered words I knew she’d remember, je t’aime beaucoup. I walked a few steps and blew her a kiss. She smiled and feebly lifted her hand, blowing me one, too.
Her death was weird. I had imagined myself racing home to comfort my family. Swooping down with hugs, nostalgia, and sympathy. But there wasn’t much I could do, dad said. So I just sat in my apartment. I didn’t even cry until the next day. That was months ago and it still hurts.
I didn’t know last Thanksgiving was my last with grandma. But I’m thankful. Thankful that I squeezed every hug, every kiss, every word of advice, every golden drop of wisdom, from that beautiful, brilliant woman.
This may be the last Thanksgiving you have with someone. Do yourself a favor: Blow them a kiss and tell them je t’aime beaucoup.
Reach columnist Matt Hittle at Matt.Hittle@usd.edu
Je t’aime beaucoup, Grandma Grace
Published: Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Updated: Tuesday, November 25, 2008
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