"I remember her dragging me down the stairs kicking and screaming."
This is my Mother.
"Of course, I was twenty-five at the time. I was visiting your Grandmother on the third floor when I was summoned downstairs by Grandma Sophie."
She's talking about when her grandmother, my great-grandma, taught her how to cook a Thanksgiving meal.
"I didn't want to learn because I knew why she was teaching me. She'd gotten diagnosed that spring and she knew she wasn't going to make it to November. So in August, she taught me and your Aunt Debby how to make a Thanksgiving dinner."
My Aunt Debby remembers--"That kitchen was so damn hot. I wanted to die."
My Mother--"Your Aunt Debby is a wuss."
My Uncle Bobby--"I didn't have to learn because I was a boy."
My Mother--"Your Uncle Bobby would have given us all food poisoning."
My Grandmother--"I was never taught to cook because my mother knew I had absolutely no interest in it. She did it every year and that was fine with me. When she found out that she was sick, she figured better to start with your mother and your aunt, rather than with me. I remember seeing her grab your mother and take her downstairs to show her how to make stuffing. I laughed and laughed, until she came back upstairs and swatted at me with a broom. Your great-grandmother was tough."
Great-Grandma Sophie is someone I heard a lot about during my childhood, but don't remember at all. She lived until I was 3-years-old.
My Mother--"She spoiled you rotten, and whenever I would beg her to let up she'd snarl at me like a pitbull. They say grandparents are better with their grandchildren than they are their children, so just imagine what great-grandparents are like."
My Grandmother--"It broke my heart when you told me you couldn't remember your Great-Grandmother. For the last three years of her life, you were it. You were her pride and joy."
When I was a little over two-and-a-half, my Sophie was diagnosed with bone cancer.
My Aunt Debby--"It was so bad for awhile they weren't sure what kind of cancer it was. It was everywhere."
My Grandmother--"We didn't know what we were going to do. Your Grandma Sophie held the family together. We thought without her the whole thing would come apart at the seams."
I do remember my Great-Grandfather Frank. He lived until I was ten-years-old, and if he's any indication of the woman he married, Grandma Sophie must have been something else, because Grandpa Frank was one of the kindest men I've ever met.
My Grandmother--"My mother and I fought a lot. Typical daughter and her mother. I was a bad girl when I was a kid. Don't look so shocked. I had your mother at seventeen, didn't I? You didn't think that was planned?"
My Mother--"I'm not talking about my mother sleeping around with you or anyone."
My Grandmother--"Your mother's a prude. Anyway, I got along best with my father. Still, when my mother found out she wasn't going to live for very much longer, I remember crying and crying for days on end, until finally my mother swatted at me with the broom and told me to pull myself together. She didn't go for theatrics. She was very no-nonsense. I remember she looked over at your aunt and mother who were sitting in my living room playing with you--looking like two kids too young to have children themselves--and she said--"
My Mother--"I'm going to teach the girls how to cook."
She taught my Mom how to do the stuffing, the cranberry sauce, and the pumpkin pie. My Aunt learned how to do the turkey--
My Mother--"Which she's never stopped bitching about."
--the yams and the corn."
My Mother--"Easy."
My Aunt--"I remember crying the whole time she was teaching me. I always wanted my grandmother to teach me how to cook, but I didn't want it to happen that way. Little did I know that was the only way she ever planned on having it happen. She loved to cook for us, and I could see it was hard for her to think she wouldn't be able to do that anymore. She was so weak, and even by that time, it was hard for her to just stand there. But she did. And she never complained. Ever since then when I make yams, I cry my eyes out."
My Grandmother--"I tell her the tears make the yams taste bad but she just snaps at me."
My Mother--"I told you, she's a wuss. I didn't cry. I just listened. I knew what she was saying was important."
My Grandmother--"Your Great-Grandmother understood that since she couldn't be around to keep us all in line, she could leave something as a reminder so it would feel like she was there even when she wasn't."
My Aunt--"I still can't make things the way she did, but I try. And when I try I think of her."
My Mother--"And she cries and cries--"
My Aunt--"And I laugh a little bit, too. I miss her a lot, but over time, it grows from pain to poignant. You learn to look past the end and see all the good stuff in the middle."
My Uncle Bobby--"I miss her stuffing, but your mom does a good job."
My Mother--"I miss her pie."
My Grandmother--"I just miss her, but I have my girls and your uncle, and you, my shining star. So I do all right."
A week ago, I found a photo of my Great-Grandma Sophie holding me in her arms, and I decided to ask and find out about her. What's strange is that, I now feel like I miss someone I don't remember. What I'm grateful for is that she felt the urge to do something to keep her family close even in her absence.
But mostly, I'm grateful she didn't make my Uncle Bobby do the turkey.
My Uncle Bobby--"That makes two of us."
This is my Mother.
"Of course, I was twenty-five at the time. I was visiting your Grandmother on the third floor when I was summoned downstairs by Grandma Sophie."
She's talking about when her grandmother, my great-grandma, taught her how to cook a Thanksgiving meal.
"I didn't want to learn because I knew why she was teaching me. She'd gotten diagnosed that spring and she knew she wasn't going to make it to November. So in August, she taught me and your Aunt Debby how to make a Thanksgiving dinner."
My Aunt Debby remembers--"That kitchen was so damn hot. I wanted to die."
My Mother--"Your Aunt Debby is a wuss."
My Uncle Bobby--"I didn't have to learn because I was a boy."
My Mother--"Your Uncle Bobby would have given us all food poisoning."
My Grandmother--"I was never taught to cook because my mother knew I had absolutely no interest in it. She did it every year and that was fine with me. When she found out that she was sick, she figured better to start with your mother and your aunt, rather than with me. I remember seeing her grab your mother and take her downstairs to show her how to make stuffing. I laughed and laughed, until she came back upstairs and swatted at me with a broom. Your great-grandmother was tough."
Great-Grandma Sophie is someone I heard a lot about during my childhood, but don't remember at all. She lived until I was 3-years-old.
My Mother--"She spoiled you rotten, and whenever I would beg her to let up she'd snarl at me like a pitbull. They say grandparents are better with their grandchildren than they are their children, so just imagine what great-grandparents are like."
My Grandmother--"It broke my heart when you told me you couldn't remember your Great-Grandmother. For the last three years of her life, you were it. You were her pride and joy."
When I was a little over two-and-a-half, my Sophie was diagnosed with bone cancer.
My Aunt Debby--"It was so bad for awhile they weren't sure what kind of cancer it was. It was everywhere."
My Grandmother--"We didn't know what we were going to do. Your Grandma Sophie held the family together. We thought without her the whole thing would come apart at the seams."
I do remember my Great-Grandfather Frank. He lived until I was ten-years-old, and if he's any indication of the woman he married, Grandma Sophie must have been something else, because Grandpa Frank was one of the kindest men I've ever met.
My Grandmother--"My mother and I fought a lot. Typical daughter and her mother. I was a bad girl when I was a kid. Don't look so shocked. I had your mother at seventeen, didn't I? You didn't think that was planned?"
My Mother--"I'm not talking about my mother sleeping around with you or anyone."
My Grandmother--"Your mother's a prude. Anyway, I got along best with my father. Still, when my mother found out she wasn't going to live for very much longer, I remember crying and crying for days on end, until finally my mother swatted at me with the broom and told me to pull myself together. She didn't go for theatrics. She was very no-nonsense. I remember she looked over at your aunt and mother who were sitting in my living room playing with you--looking like two kids too young to have children themselves--and she said--"
My Mother--"I'm going to teach the girls how to cook."
She taught my Mom how to do the stuffing, the cranberry sauce, and the pumpkin pie. My Aunt learned how to do the turkey--
My Mother--"Which she's never stopped bitching about."
--the yams and the corn."
My Mother--"Easy."
My Aunt--"I remember crying the whole time she was teaching me. I always wanted my grandmother to teach me how to cook, but I didn't want it to happen that way. Little did I know that was the only way she ever planned on having it happen. She loved to cook for us, and I could see it was hard for her to think she wouldn't be able to do that anymore. She was so weak, and even by that time, it was hard for her to just stand there. But she did. And she never complained. Ever since then when I make yams, I cry my eyes out."
My Grandmother--"I tell her the tears make the yams taste bad but she just snaps at me."
My Mother--"I told you, she's a wuss. I didn't cry. I just listened. I knew what she was saying was important."
My Grandmother--"Your Great-Grandmother understood that since she couldn't be around to keep us all in line, she could leave something as a reminder so it would feel like she was there even when she wasn't."
My Aunt--"I still can't make things the way she did, but I try. And when I try I think of her."
My Mother--"And she cries and cries--"
My Aunt--"And I laugh a little bit, too. I miss her a lot, but over time, it grows from pain to poignant. You learn to look past the end and see all the good stuff in the middle."
My Uncle Bobby--"I miss her stuffing, but your mom does a good job."
My Mother--"I miss her pie."
My Grandmother--"I just miss her, but I have my girls and your uncle, and you, my shining star. So I do all right."
A week ago, I found a photo of my Great-Grandma Sophie holding me in her arms, and I decided to ask and find out about her. What's strange is that, I now feel like I miss someone I don't remember. What I'm grateful for is that she felt the urge to do something to keep her family close even in her absence.
But mostly, I'm grateful she didn't make my Uncle Bobby do the turkey.
My Uncle Bobby--"That makes two of us."
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