Bringing memories forward...
It's Mother's Day. I realized not long ago that I never really called anyone mother when I was younger. Not mom or mama or mommy, either. It feels weird to call myself a mother and when I let myself stop and think about it, it still seems strange to me when E and L call me mom or mama, even though that's who I am to them. It's not as though I didn't know my own mom growing up. It's just that she didn't really raise me--my grandmother did. So I said Gramma a lot and called my mother by her name when I was talking about her. I generally avoided calling my mother anything at all to her face. It used to make my middle sister so angry--one of many things we disagreed on when we were younger (though years and distance, both geographic and temporal, have a way of softening these kinds of things). Eventually, when I had kids of my own, my mother was elated to be a grandmother, even though we lived 2,000 miles apart. I couldn't bring myself to deny her. You know, that whole age and distance thing. She passed away in 2023 and man is that a story. But I'll save that one for another day.
Today, on Mother's Day, I want to honor my grandmother, the woman who did motherhood, round two, for me. She passed away in 2024, six months after my mother. I remember the last time I saw her in person. It was when I had gone back to California for my mother's celebration of life. We had just had dinner at my youngest sister's house and I was going to fly home the next day. We were giving good-bye hugs and I realized as I had my arms around her how much shorter she seemed (she was never tall), and more fragile. She was crying a little and squeezing me as though if she could squeeze tightly enough, she could keep me with her. For me, it felt like all of the sadness I never let myself feel when I remembered that I was so far away. It felt like all of my regret for having left, even when I knew that she understood why. In her final days, I was able to speak to her on a video call, even if she couldn't speak back. I got a chance to tell her how grateful I've always been for the safe harbor she always was for me, even when I didn't see it. For letting me follow my feet, even when they led me so far away. How she lived her life was the example that gave me the courage.
When my little family was making plans to go back to California for her celebration of life, my uncle--her oldest son--made sure the date was one that worked for us because apparently she told him that they had to wait until I could be there. So we went and I wrote her eulogy. She gave me a quiet little gift that day--the pastor who led her service found me afterwards and said some kind things about the eulogy. "Are you a writer?" he asked. "Oh, umm...yes?" I responded. I'd never said those words out loud. Even with a different kind of distance, it felt like Gramma was rooting for me.
So no matter my regrets, I can honor her by being the person she gave me the space to be; by bringing her forward with me, sharing the wisdom she gave me with her great grandsons so they can carry her forward with them. And by sharing a bit of her story here with you...
To look at G, you might be forgiven for underestimating her. At a petite four feet and eleven inches tall, her height belied her presence. She was formidable. As the wife of a Navy petty officer, she had to be, and it was obvious right from the start. She married my grandfather in August of 1958, a month before her 18th birthday. Family legend has it that when he initially refused to marry her (because she was “too young”), G sent her father down to the Navy ship that my grandfather was stationed on. She must have been right because they were happily married for forty-nine years. They raised five children and even some of their grandchildren together.
Not just Mom and Grandma to her own family, G quickly became Grandma to most of Los Serranos, the small community she served as a crossing guard for the elementary school. For twenty years, she always made sure “her kids,” and eventually their kids, went to school every day. All were welcome at her house, just down the street from the school; she lived by the motto that she might not have much, but she would always share what she had--even when that meant her two-bedroom, one-bath house sheltered eleven people, with another family of three in a trailer in the front yard.
Above all, G will be remembered for her fiery nature, determined spirit, and deep compassion. Of these traits, stories abound. There was the time, for example, she grew tired of smelling spray paint and seeing her back wall littered with gang tags. So she lay in wait one afternoon, until she smelled the paint, and then took off down the alley after the gang members she took by surprise. She actually caught one. After lecturing him about respect and other people’s property, she struck a deal with him. As long as he promised no tagging and no dirty words, he was welcome to paint the wall with his spray cans. After that, her back wall became a canvas for street art, an ever-changing mural giving voice to an artist who might not otherwise have had a chance to realize his talent, even if only on that small scale. She was just like that—ready to support and help others rise to their potential in their own way—to become their best selves—even when it wasn’t something she herself understood.
During some of their final years together, G was known for sitting with with her husband in the afternoons and early evenings in the garage, watching game shows and keeping an eye on the street. Neighborhood kids would wave and greet them and neighbors would stop by for iced tea and conversation. She was a comforting fixture there, equally ready to scold bad behavior and cackle at a joke. She loved the rosebushes her younger son tended for her. Everyone knew not to touch her chocolate or her sweets, though; those were treats she didn’t intend to share.
G survived her husband by nearly seventeen years. It was part of how she was built, it seemed, to somehow keep carrying on, even when times were hard. She endured several major illnesses and operations throughout her long life, and no matter how many times the doctors tried to prepare her family, it was never necessary. And though she often talked about her loneliness, how her heart ached, missing her companion of so long, she still lived life with joy and managed to make mischief. She took delight in telling of the time she kept her daughter-in-law talking into the wee morning hours and she would urge her granddaughters to drive as fast as they could on the freeway just so she could see how fast the car would go. She loved to catch up on the phone—especially with her daughters and granddaughters—trading family gossip and hearing what her great-grandchildren were up to. She often joked about running away with a boyfriend, but only if he treated her nicely.
And even in her last days, when it was clear she would soon begin her final journey home, she refused to go quietly into that good night. She would live her final days as she had always lived—on her own terms and in her own time. The outsized legacy she leaves behind—embodied in the fierce women and caring men she both nurtured and surrounded herself with—is a testament to her long and full life. A life well-lived.
