The Greatest Person You Never Met

My grandmother died last night at 11:30 pm.

I got the call that she had passed away “peacefully” this morning as I walked into the office (and you thought your Monday sucked).

She was 95, which sounds old unless you met her. She was one of the those rare people who at 60 was hipper than most 30-year-olds and at 85 was in better shape mentally and physically than most 60-year-olds.

An example?

At the age of 83 she traveled to London by herself to ring in the new millenium in complete style. At 90-years-old she was quoted in the Chicago Tribune as she left the opera and she would not be returning unless it was with a young man who picked her up in a limosuine.

She was the youngest of 12 children born on a farm outside Holland, Michigan. Her father sent all 12 of his kids to college and he delivered 4 of them himself. Her husband (who truly was the love of her life) died of leukemia when she was still young, leaving her with my 15-year-old father and 12-year-old aunt to raise on her own.

She went and got a job. She retired. She cashed her teacher’s pension and re-invested it, making a fortune. She lived in a condo on Michigan Avenue across from Oak Street Beach, just down from Oprah. In her later years she bought a home in Glen Ellyn, Illinois and lived with my Aunt, Uncle and their two children.

She was more of a friend  and advisor than a grandmother. She was always politefully honest and full of grace and style.

When she would come visit for the holidays, her typical garb was black leather pants and a low cut cashmere sweater.

I said to her a few years ago:

“Gram, I sweat like crazy. If I put on leather pants like that they would be destroyed in an hour. How do you clean them?”

“I just throw them away and buy new ones.”

I’ll never forget when she heard women were inserting “dimmers” into their bras to keep their nipples from showing.

“What’s wrong with nipples? I happen to like nipples.”

See? A lot of traits are passed down genetically.

Favorite memories?

Her schooling my friends at HORSE in the driveway when I was in junior high…

Her walking me to the record store in 3rd grade to buy Van Halen’s “Diver Down”…

Her love advice to me in college was “Cute girls are nice and they are fun but you do not marry cute. You marry beautiful minds. That will always keep you interested.”

She was many things but above all she was the grandmother everyone else wished they had.

I found this note recently from my Grandmother and I’ll share with you because I know, you too would have loved her like I did.

She wrote it to me when I graduated from college and gave it to me along with a collection of Mike Ryko articles and a Dylan Thomas anthology.

“As I said at lunch yesterday, student days are over, but scholarship just begins.

So, my dear young man, whether or not reading “hurts your brain” (and I assume it does not) this reading will soothe the soul.

If you absolutely CAN’T read and your brain hurts TOO much, just carry these with you to the bar. Perhaps you’ll attract an intelligent girl who will read them to you.”

I love you Grandma Dottie. Thank you for everything.

What She Said (My Best Weekend Ever)

Feb 2, 1945 to Jan 4, 2013

I’ve been blessed with a strange memory.

If I’m paying attention, I can remember almost exactly what someone tells me. That being said, there are a lot of fuckers out there that I ignore so my talents aren’t always recognized.

I spent the weekend looking after my mother who is dying of cancer.

It sounds so stupid now but I was afraid to go up there and look after her. What if something happened and I couldn’t help?

So just for grins, of all the things my mother told me over those 3 days, these are my favorites.

“I knew when you really loved a girl because you would become quiet and reserved around her. You’d stop trying to entertain.”

This is true. I just have this need to completely soak up everything they are saying, doing, wearing etc. So I get quiet. I observe. This tends to, well, annoy the fuck out of the person I’m totally digging. But if they understood this, then, well, maybe it wouldn’t be quite as annoying? I don’t know… modern love is confusing.

There is a huge collection of stuffed animals piling up in the living room. I think she gets roughly two a week sent to her from all kinds of people. Seriously, kids that sat in her kindergarten class 25 years ago are writing her get well notes. Not emails. Not Facebook shit. Actual hand written notes with gifts.

“I had no idea that people would send stuffed animals to a geriatric woman.”

For the record, she’s only 66-years-old. That’s hardly geriatric.

We spent a lot of time watching the birds at her feeder. My mother’s favorite bird is the Cardinal. My favorite bird is the beautiful, loud and crazy as hell Blue Jay.

“They are bossy things but you go ahead and like your Blue Jays.”

We both agreed the Mocking Bird is probably the most annoying bird of all and we lamented that it is the state bird of Texas.

My soft spoken, always thoughtful and sociology trained and eventual “kindergarten teacher to the gifted” mother is, surprisingly, a master at the art of firearms. In fact, as a teen she acheieved the rank of “Distinguished Expert” by the National Rifle Association. It is their highest possible ranking.

“I was quite the star”

She confessed that the rifle instructor at camp was a bit “nerdy” and that she was drawn to the sailing instructor.

“So unlike me. He had uncombed, sandy hair and a wild look in his eye.”

She’s having a hard time with her balance and asked me to change her bed sheets for her.

“Leave a lot more bed sheet on your father’s side so it will cover his stomach.”

Speaking of my father…

We talked about how despite being a chemical engineer, a passionate amateur astronomer, an expert on European and American history… he knows very little about some surprising subjects.

“Your father thinks that if he sweats just enough that it actually removes any dirt or bacteria from his body but I tell him that he is wrong.”

And then things started to get weepy…

There were a lot of sad discussions that centered around her impending death and what it was like when her own mother and father died.

I told her that I have a hard time talking to people about things that are important to me. Anything serious or anything I am worried about, I try to keep to myself. I told her that when she goes, I’ll feel all alone because she’s the only one that really knows and understands who I am.

“Well, I’ve known you longer than anyone else. I knew you before you were even born.”

Then I broke down, after thinking about it all day, and finally told her.

“I know this chemotherapy is hard for you, but I’m glad you are trying. If it gets to be too much you can stop at any time. I’ll understand.”

“Thank you.”

“No, I want to thank you. This might sound selfish but I’m so glad to just have you all to myself this weekend.”

“I love you and I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a perfect mother but I tried to be.”

“No, mom. You were the best mother a boy could ever had. You were perfect. Don’t ever think differently.”

And that was about it. My best weekend ever.

She died seven months after being diagnosed.

My last real exchange with her was on December 10, 2012. She looked so small in her hospital bed. My eyes were filled with tears and I said:


“I love you so much. More than anything.”

She rolled her big brown eyes, fluttered her eye lashes and said, “What’s not to love?”

I love her and will miss her forever.