My Inheritance
The day before yesterday, in a pre-Valentimes package, the
memento from my dead grandmother’s belongings arrived in the mail: a porcelain cocker
spaniel figurine. The choice is well-meaning, as I have a beautiful cocker
spaniel, the indestructible old-man-pup, Boogie. It’s cute. Sure, it’s cute.
But it does not remind me of her.
Grandma was not shy to tell you why she loved me: my smart
mouth. And she loved my smart mouth because she had one, too. She was
forthright and funny, and if she hurt people's feelings once in awhile, well, maybe
she helped make them stronger for it. When you have eight children, like
Grandma did, you have to have a sense of humor. My mom is the oldest, and the
youngest is nearly twenty years behind her. That’s not just a lot of kids, that’s
a long time spent raising them.
She and Grandpa didn’t have an easy time financially, so she
worked. Up until she moved out of the house they lived in for as long as I could
remember, she worked part-time cleaning houses. Caryn Kadavy, figure skater,
was among her clients. She was of the ilk that does not enjoy being idle, but
she was not shy about telling you you could serve yourself. One Thanksgiving, as
the pumpkin pie and Cool Whip were brought out, she asked if anyone would like
ice cream to go with it. When we all refused, she said, “Good. I don’t have any
ice cream anyway.” She did, however, go out of her way to be sure she had all
of our favorite treats when we visited, including an entire bag of Doritos
reserved for my younger brother.
Unfortunately, Grandma and I were not close. When I was
little, we visited on major holidays and her birthday. When I was older, and
moved down South, I didn’t see her for five years. When I decided to convert to
Judaism, it was not something I ever discussed with her, though when I did see
her again, and had a coffee at the restaurant while everyone else ate, it was
explained that I was “on a diet” and later, my parents must have been more
forthright, because sometime during the year before she died, she called me,
and we had a brief chat. “Are you still on that diet?” she asked. And I knew
that she meant keeping kosher, the Jewish diet according to Torah restrictions. And in fact, I was. I had
converted the winter before. When I said yes, she said, “Good for you.” And
that was the end of it.
When I brought home a Jewish boyfriend, she was welcoming,
and did not even blink an eye at his yarmulke. In fact, she sent me a card
simply to tell me how much she liked him.
And of all the amazing things that my grandmother did, that
was the most precious to me. It was not easy for my family when I converted,
and it could not have been easy for her. There were years when she attended
church nearly every day, and she did her best to raise my mother, aunts, and
uncles to be good Catholics. For her to offer her blessing was a real act of
chesed.
I could tell you, of course, of some of Grandma’s less
stellar moments, but in the end, it seems unnecessary. I am beginning to
understand how death washes out the lighter stains and brings us closer, at
least in the memories of those still on earth, to Gan Eden. More importantly for those still in this world, holding onto the old hurts committed by the dead does not do the departed any good, nor does it serve us. They cannot give us the satisfaction of an apology, and gripping the hurt just continues to hurt. Likewise, guilt for our own action or inaction. We cannot change the past, only the present and future. Learn from your errors and do better to those still close to you.
So, instead of a critical memory, I will celebrate my grandmother by telling a story, which is now part of family lore. One of my aunts had taken my grandmother and her two boisterous sisters out for a drink. Having enjoyed themselves perhaps a bit more than they should have, they began to flirt with the bartender. When he did not show the interest they thought their attention deserved, they began to pelt him with peanuts.
So, instead of a critical memory, I will celebrate my grandmother by telling a story, which is now part of family lore. One of my aunts had taken my grandmother and her two boisterous sisters out for a drink. Having enjoyed themselves perhaps a bit more than they should have, they began to flirt with the bartender. When he did not show the interest they thought their attention deserved, they began to pelt him with peanuts.
My grandmother and her sisters were kicked out of the bar.
She was over the age of eighty at the time. May we all live to see such feistiness.
Ardys Moniot
