In a world full of Karens, be a Barb.
This is my Grandma Barb.
A few weeks ago, my dad called. My grandmother was in the hospital, and her time seemed to be waning. If you’ve lost someone, you know the feeling of helplessness and emptiness before they are even gone. I hadn’t realized the tremendous impact she had on my life, but my devastation illuminated just how much of a role she played in making me who I am today.
My grandmother had not been chronically sick, so I did not mentally prepare. She lived a long life, and although she was no longer physically spry, she was willful, to say the least. After my Grandpa Jack passed away 12 years ago, she told her children she would absolutely NOT move into a senior or assisted living facility because that was peoples’ last stop before the pearly gates. She, quite frankly, had no intention of going any time soon.
She just as willfully decided when she was ready. On Tuesday afternoon, she told her children her fight was over. She chose to relieve them from trying to tame a strong-willed woman. She selflessly said her goodbyes, and on Thanksgiving morning, she undoubtedly met my Grandfather for a manhattan at those very same pearly gates.
This is one of the things I loved most about my Grandma Barb. She was a strong and opinionated woman. She was vocal about the things that mattered to her, and she was definitely a woman of action. If you had the pleasure of meeting Grandma Barb, you would quickly learn she’d never met a stranger. Strangers quickly became friends and were just as quickly sharing a large booming laugh with her. She loved her family, the Lord, the church, and a good meal. Grandma Barb held the throne of Matriarch to our family very well. Despite being very conservative in her beliefs and having an expected code of conduct that could intimidate, Grandma Barb felt like a safe space for me.
When I was young, I would lay my head in Grandma Barb’s lap; she would delicately trace each feature on my face while saying, “Gretchen has the most beautiful eyebrows; they frame her bright blue eyes so perfectly. And, oh my, those eyelashes, it’s like they could touch the sky. Her perfect nose….her cheeks…her lips….her chin…..her ears.” She made me feel beautiful and unique, and loved. She would tell me that I had a long neck like a beautiful, poised ballerina or that people pay a lot of money to have the blonde highlights that ran through my hair. Grandma Barb taught me to love the skin I was in, find beauty in my uniqueness, and even turn insecurities into assets.
She taught me to remind others of their beauty, be quick to hand out compliments, even to strangers. You can make someone feel beautiful and seen even when they might not see their own value.
To me, my grandmother seemed the epitome of a high-society woman. Her home with my grandfather sat atop a majestic hill. At least it seemed majestic to a young girl; it felt like a castle. She drove a particular car, one as large as a boat, which was ironic given she didn’t have a great track record and earned the name “Crash Kreuer.” Grandma Barb had a standing appointment to have her hair done. She was always dressed to the nines, obviously with hair, makeup, and jewelry completing the perfectly polished look. And she wore dressing robes…like legit, silk robes over her PJs. She had closets full of gorgeous gowns that she let my sisters and I play dress-up in. I still don’t know if I could distinguish between pajamas and evening gowns. Regardless, we put on fashion shows in dresses she hadn’t been able to wear in years but felt luxurious to us. I pretended I was going to an estate dinner or fundraiser gala as I twirled down the hallway towards her bedroom door for the show finale.
She and my grandfather loved to travel together. They were constantly off on some trip and would return with many collectibles. My favorite collectibles were the Toby mugs, pottery mugs formed in a likeness of a person’s face. My grandparent’s living room had a shelf around the room 8-12 inches down from the ceiling full of Toby mug characters. There was a coordinating coffee table book that listed all the Toby mugs and a brief history or description. My grandmother would pick a page and begin reading the story as my sisters, and I embarked on a scavenger hunt around the living room to see who could find the character first. When the game first started, she would use the Mug’s name such as, “Rip Van Winkle,” but as we got older and became Toby mug experts, we only got clues from the story; “he took a 21-year nap.”
She taught me, trash or treasure “things” are just reminders of memories that bring us joy, and if you share those stories they can spread even more joy and create more memories.
As a “high-society” woman, my grandmother was also a socialite and a philanthropist. Grandma Barb had friends everywhere we went. She talked about the group of neighbors with whom she and my grandfather played cards regularly. Then, there were the social groups she had joined when she and my grandfather moved from state to state for his job. I remember her regaling us for hours with stories about her musical group (the Clef Notes – I think). If you’ve ever had a conversation with my Grandma Barb, you know I mean HOURS literally. She talked about the group of women with whom she shared adventures to the White House to perform or lunches where they had to be asked multiple times to quiet down only to appease the patrons by offering a song.
With each of these sets of friends, she shared a passion for giving back through music, fundraising, or volunteering. If you google Grandma Barb’s name, you will find endless articles about her philanthropic efforts as the founder of a fundraising guild, Chair of volunteer committees, President of the board of directors, and award-winning community service leader.
During a summer visit, Grandma Barb played a song from Voices of Caring, a fundraiser for a child care program for the working poor and homeless. My sister and I began to sing the lyrics after the second or third chorus from the back seat. I still remember some of those lyrics today “Hearts of healing, calling out in need…” When my grandmother noticed us singing, she turned down the radio. My sister and I quieted with the music. “No, my darlings, I turned it down so I can hear your angelic voices.” We began singing again and continued the entire way home.
When we got home, Grandma Barb pulled out her (literal) Rolodex and punched the phone numbers into the yellow corded phone that sat in the corner of her kitchen. I remember hearing my Grandmother from the other room. It seemed she was calling everyone she knew. Each conversation the same. “You have to hear my granddaughters sing. They have the voices of angels. We must have them come back to sing at the concert.” By the end of the trip, my sister and I had memorized all of the lyrics and were pretty convinced we were getting some sort of record deal. That feeling of her contagious pride is still palpable for me.
She taught me: Everyone is an opportunity for a friend and a celebration. Whether the White House, lunch at a local diner, or driving the commute home, you can find something to celebrate and someone to share a passion with.
Grandma Barb taught me to knit. It’s quite peculiar to see a 9 or 10-year-old girl knitting, but Grandma Barb kept a basket of yarn and knitting needles beside her bed, and I was intrigued. She was gentle and kind, which was necessary to teach a budding perfectionist who became easily frustrated by her own mistakes.
She taught me to be curious, try new things, and never accept failure. Curiousity can’t kill the cat, after all they have 9 lives.
I visited a homeless shelter or soup kitchen with my Grandma Barb for the first time. Weary families lined the dingy city street. I still feel my initial discomfort and fright. Everyone looked so different than me. They were far from the polished look of my Grandmother. But Grandma Barb put me at ease with her jovial hellos to the families as she passed by to open up the doors. She greeted them each as warmly as she did our family. She knew some of their stories and others; it was like she knew their souls. The grumpiest of gentlemen would even soften his frown as she gave him a roll and flashed a large toothy smile.
She taught me everyone is human and should be treated accordingly.
There are so many other memories, some fragmented, some more of a feeling than a memory.
When I gloated about my professional success, she taught me to examine what is really important to me—time, family, money.
When I asked about her marriage to my Grandfather in preparation for my MoH speech at my sisters’ wedding, she taught me friendship, respect, and trust are the only foundation for love.
She taught me to walk into a room with confidence.
I knew growing up, good manners could get me almost anywhere with Grandma Barb, and I’m happy to say my children learned this too.
Last year, I woke up on a Saturday morning and decided to spontaneously pack my children in the car and take the 4-hour trip to see my Grandmother. I don’t know why. It wasn’t a special occasion; my grandmother wasn’t sick. It’s not like 4 hours of car travel with a 3 & 4-year-old is my idea of fun. Yet, I am so happy I did. With my Aunt’s help, we surprised Grandma at her new apartment; pizza and salad in hand. The five of us sat down for a meal. My boys educated Grandma Barb on all things superheroes. They pleased and thank you’d their way into cranberry juice with dinner, something Mommy would not normally allow, and even came home with a few tokens of their own. H-bear still holds that fridge magnet calculator among his prized possessions and often “calls Grandma Barb on it to tell her Thank you.”
On Tuesday, my boys were with me when I learned about Grandma Barb’s decision. As I burst into tears on the couch, my oldest wrapped his arms around my neck, told me Grandma was going to heaven, and then climbed off my lap, returning with a glass of water. I swear I don’t know where that kid gets it. On second thought, maybe I do. Maybe he learned to give selflessly the same as Grandma Barb.
