.jpg)
Instead, Omi was a timeless powerhouse. No normal label – especially not grandmother – was a good fit for her. She was outspoken and vibrant and emotional and critical and loving and life just flowed through her. She had charisma and appeal and social graces mixed with just the right amount of crass wit. Her dry humor often came out with a little English or French mixed in for effect. She was athletic and strong but feminine and put together. She was adored by her husband and her three boys and soaked in every ounce of that adoration. She was queen of her family and fiercely independent. But, yet, she also wanted to be doted on. She was comfortable in her skin and loved to dress up and dance and drink and smoke and be merry. She never snuck away from a party to go to bed early. She talked in her deep, loud voice, and laughed as easily as she complained and argued.
As kids we spent summers with our German grandparents and that usually meant three of the six weeks we lived with Omi and Opa. When we were little Omi would make our beds in the guest rooms downstairs with a chocolate on the pillow. Summers with Omi and Opa involved biking, long and late extravagant dinners, time with our cousins, bocce in the backyard, a trip to Italy or Austria, and usually a big party at the end of the summer for Opa's birthday. Omi wasn't the nurturing, warm grandmother figure. But these were her activities and we were her grandchildren and she shined for us in these settings. She and Opa taught us which fork to use for which course, how to put the napkin in your lap, and which wine was the dryest. She let us climb into her BMW and zipped around town running over curbs and parking illegally. She was above the law – but only in the most unassuming and innocent kind of way. She knew every shop owner and they dropped everything to make her happy when she walked through their door. She picked out new clothes for us and made sure we had fresh haircuts. And she let us paint our toenails with her red polish try on her jewelry, which she kept hidden in the back of the freezer, in case the house ever got robbed.
She was an outstanding cook and made sauces so creamy and rich, that after six weeks in Germany, I would always come home twice my normal size. When she cooked, I would perch myself on the counter in the kitchen and watch her while we talked. She rarely did that thing that old people do when they recount the same stories from their past over and over. Instead she was always interested in the present. What was I up to? How were things with various family members? She had opinions about everything and everyone. It was gossipy and I loved it.
Every once in a while she would talk about her past: her adventures during World War II and how she and Opa met. But mostly I learned these stories from others. They were real stories, rich with love, betrayal, war, family, and danger. Her young adulthood was the stuff of movies or novels. But she was surprisingly modest – never flaunting her history and never a show off.
Its hard for me to believe that someone like her could ever die. She was so lively and robust and I think I somehow I believed she would live forever. She didn’t tread lightly. She left a mark everywhere she went and on everyone she met. Because a force of nature like this woman is my grandmother, it means a slightly different definition of mother, wife, grandmother, and woman is deeply ingrained in me. It also means her liveliness runs through my blood and through the blood of my kids and one day through the blood of their kids. And that, does indeed, mean she will live forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment