On May 14, my Grandmother turned 89. She hung on long enough for all four of her children to come from the four corners they were in to be with her, before she exited this world. By all accounts, she had a wonderful life. There were problems along the way, but overall she was a happy, blessed woman and we were all extremely fortunate to be a part of her family.
My grandparents had 4 children. My mother is the oldest, and I could always tell, because I always thought she was the strictest. Hanging out with my youngest uncle, who is only 11 years older than I, was WAY better than hanging out with my mom, in my pre-teenaged opinion. I have a few stories of hanging out with him that start out with, "Don't tell Ma." When I was growing up, it seemed both uncles had only one name - LarryEd. No matter which one Gram was calling, it always came out "LarryEd." This always used to make me laugh. And, somehow, the entire family had the long "ee" sound at the end of their name: Bonnie, Larry, Joanie, Eddie, Katie, Kimmy, Kirky, Toby and Courtney. Sometimes, she had to go through the whole list before she would hit the name she was actually trying to say. This always used to make me laugh, too. Even after I had my own children, and I would mix up my kid's name with the dog's name (they both started with a vowel) or call my son by his sister's name, I would remember my grandmother's list of names and smile.
Both my grandparents grew up in the Syracuse and surrounding area, but when my mother was in high school, my grandfather got transferred to Ohio. My mom lived with family friends for a year to finish out school. The other 3 siblings went to Ohio. They lived in (what seemed to me) a fairly large house on Middleton Road. At least 4 bedrooms, that I remember, attached garage, a basement where my grandfather used to do stained glass work, a laundry chute that went from the second floor all the way down to the laundry room in the basement (way cool!), the coolest French doors between the living room and the front hallway, a garden out back and a large weeping willow tree in the front yard that used to be my "secret" play fort. I remember carefully separating the hanging branches with my hands, as if they were curtains, to reveal my own little hideaway, where I felt that no one else could see me. Across the street was undeveloped land - huge empty fields - and my grandparent's mailbox. Seemed strange to me to have to cross the street to get the mail, but I liked it because it was new and different from my house. The French doors were also new and different, and I loved closing myself into the living room, with the TV and the big stone fireplace, then having imaginary friends come calling, so I could very dramatically and elegantly open the grand French doors and welcome them in. Christmases were alternated between my parent's house and my grandparent's. Some of the best times were had in Ohio, with all 4 siblings, significant others, and their 5 respective children, gathered in the living room, with the maroon rug and the god-awful floral print couch. One year, my grandfather wrapped up a cylinder-shaped gift for one of my cousins, and when he opened it, coiled up streamers popped out and surprised all of us! Every Christmas, there was always lots of laughter, a ton of ripped up wrapping paper, and 5 very happy kids playing with all their new toys and reluctantly having their pictures taken.
My family is part of a time share cabin on a lake in the middle of nowhere in the Adirondacks, and we used to go there every year when my sister and I were growing up. My mom had been going there since she was a little girl. It was woven into our family fabric, part of our heritage as Harts. I can vividly remember my grandmother standing on the enclosed front porch, frantically looking out at the water and scanning the nearby woods, yelling things like, "Where's the baby? Where's KatieKimmyKirkyToby? LarryEd, make sure you can see the kids! The kids aren't swimming by themselves, are they? Make sure you have a walking stick and a whistle with you on your hike! Wear a hat! Do you have bug spray, get the bug spray!" etc, etc, etc. The men in the maternal side of my family all seem to have this cool, calm demeanor. The women (sorry to say), do not. She was a worrier. And while we, the grandkids, were in our childhood heaven of carefree-ness, she was the queen of worrying about everyone on premise. Meanwhile, my grandfather would be comfortably nestled in one of the Adirondack chairs, looking at his crossword puzzle, slowly sipping coffee, and saying in a low, calm voice, "Relax, Edna. They're fine. Bonnie's right over there with them. Sit down, Edna." The next generation down (my mother, my aunt and my two uncles) were the protectors. "I'm watching the kids, Mom. I have the baby, don't worry. Yes, Ma, we have our walking sticks, bug spray and hats. Relax, Ma, they're fine." I could sense a slight rolling of eyes from her children, every time Gram would shout out one of her worries. Then there was us. Me, my sister and my 3 cousins would go running around, totally carefree and oblivious of all the immediate dangers that were directly below our feet. There were no guardrails surrounding the lake. There was a dock, that got slippery. There was no on-duty lifeguard, that job went to our parents. There was no lawn care maintenance crew, heck, there was no lawn! There was roots and dirt and endless amounts of pine needles. This was the one place where we could just go, do (kind of) what we wanted and get as dirty as possible. We could hear Gram's concerns, but generally speaking we didn't think much of them. The rules of normal society were lifted. This place had it's own set of rules, and even at a very young age, we knew and obeyed them. I remember such a stark difference in how my grandparents handled things. And those traits have carried on down the familial lines. My uncles have now assumed the role that my grandfather once played, sitting calmly on the porch, reassuring their sisters (mostly my mother) that all the family members are fine and accounted for. My mother has turned slightly into her mother, calling out concerns and making sure that everything is "just right." I've turned into the protector, watching my 3 kids and making sure they are well aware of the lake rules, providing them with the proper tools needed (i.e. bug spray, sunscreen, hats, and whistles).
One year at the lake, when I was young, Gram and Gramp took the "big trip" into town, which was about half an hour or so away from our camp. For some reason, this was kind of a big deal, and we didn't send people into town unless absolutely needed. While they were gone, the rest of us decided to take a hile around the lake. Knowing that if no one was left at the cabin upon their return, Gram would probably make the assumption that we had all been murdered or something, my uncle wrote a note. It went something like: "Dear Mom and Dad, we went around the lake hunting yak and fungus. Will bring home dinner." Henceforth, that hike has been called the Great Yak and Fungus Expedition. We went all out to commemorate this. There were T-shirts made, we decorated and all signed a large tree fungus (as per tradition) depicting our trail around the lake in search of yaks, we were all given some sort of royal title (I was Spore Queen), and it has been a legend for at least a couple decades. These are the crazy antics my family pulls. And Gram always put up with it, and laughed.
With time and age, comes complications. Over the past number of years, her memory was starting to fade. I spent a Mother's Day with her and my uncles in 2011. It was wonderful, but a little heartbreaking as well. She was in very good spirits, always smiling and laughing. She would start to tell a joke, forget the punchline, then laugh at herself for forgetting the punchline! She had the 3 of us in stitches at times. It was obvious her short term memory was going. About every two minutes she'd ask, "What time is it? What are we supposed to be doing?" and in the male Hart manner, one of my uncles would answer very calmly, "We're chilling in the room, Ma. Nothing to do except sit and talk." No matter how many times she'd ask the question, the response was always in the same cool tone. No aggravation, no irritation, no waver. I've always admired my uncles, but I admired them a million times more that weekend. Watching them deal with watching their mother slip bit by bit was enlightening. When we had gone to dinner in the dining hall, she needed to use the restroom. I went with her, and upon returning to the seating area, she said, "Now, where's our table? Oh, I see it. I see.... I see.... what's his name sitting there. I see him." She was referring to her own son, and my heart shattered into a million pieces when she couldn't bring up his name. "Yes, Gram. There's Ed, at our table," I managed to say very calmly. I learned a lot that weekend, and I treasured the time with her.
In August 2011, I went back to Ohio to visit Gram, and took my eldest son (who was 10 at the time). He had been out to see her a couple times previous, and she still knew both him and I, which was comforting. My mission was to take pictures of her, some of the other people in her living area, and her surroundings. My uncle "hired" me to create a scrapbook for her, in hopes of keeping her memory active as long as possible. We had a lovely weekend with Gram, although I discovered quickly that it is difficult to take pictures of someone doing things, when all they do is play the occasional Bingo and hang out on the back patio. My son and I managed to get a couple dozen various photos, and we quickly assembled them together in a scrapbook. On Saturday night, we told her we were leaving the retirement center, but would be back the next morning and we would bring her a scrapbook. She seemed to understand and accept that. Sunday morning, we showed up as promised, and she was surprised to see us. "I wasn't sure if maybe you had just left to go home." "No Gram," I said very slowly and calmly, "we brought you a scrapbook, just like we said." We handed over the book, and sat with her on the couch in the common area, as she slowly looked at each photo. With each page turn, she would quietly say, "This is wonderful. This is just incredible. I didn't know you were going to do this! This is just so wonderful." We said a tearful goodbye, leaving the book with her, wondering how long she would remember who gave it to her or why. I believe that was the last time I saw her.
My oldest child remembers Gram. The middle one, my daughter, met Gram when she was just a baby. She recognizes Gram from pictures and stories, but never really "knew" her. My youngest never had the chance to meet her. Which saddens me more in the fact that Gram never got to meet one of her great grandchildren. While visiting St. Patrick's Cathedral in NYC last month, my youngest son asked to light a candle and say a prayer. When I asked him for whom, he answered, unprovoked, "Gramma Hart, because I just think she needs a little help right now." Those words from a 6-year-old who never met Gramma Hart have become infamous in my mind. Somehow, my son sensed that Gram needed prayers, and unbeknownst to me, she indeed did. She spent 19 years widowed from her husband, and I think she knew she was slipping away. She always told her children not to take any wild measures to prolong her life, and I think she just finally reached a stopping point. She was refusing her pain medication, and hadn't eaten or drank anything for 5 days. She waited until all 4 of her children could be with her one last time, said hello and goodbye, then she just stopped. It would be selfish to say I wish she hadn't gone. I'm glad she went quietly, with cognizance and dignity left, and on her own terms. I treasure all the memories I have and all the stories that we'll be able to tell. I hope my kids, and the one-year-old son of my cousin, will be able to have a sense of who she was through the rest of our family members. She will always be alive within us. God rest your soul, Gram.
