08.21.10
A Wonderful Life
That is the best way to describe the life my Grandmother lived. Yes, my Grandmother of whom I have written so much about, passed away on July 29. It is so hard for me to believe. I had her in my life for so long. She was 97 (and a half) years old. She was always there for me and my family, and she adored her grandchildren. My Grandmother attended every graduation and debutante ball, beamed proudly at family weddings and was the center of family reunions. She was the matriarch of our family, her church, and her community.
I think my favorite memories are from childhood. She loved to drive me and my sister into downtown Newnan, Georgia, and buy us beautiful dolls. She liked to brag about us and my brothers - as all grandparents do - and would even have me perform for her friends in her living room when I was a little girl.
The day of her funeral though, I wasn’t thinking about any of those things. As the funeral car wove around the narrow streets of her neighborhood, it dawned on me that it was the first time I had ever been to Newnan in all of my life and not been able to see my Grandmother. I became overwhelmed right before we arrived at the church. My mother wondered if I’d be able to make it through the song I was scheduled to sing at the service. It was my Grandmother’s last request of me. How could I not? Plus, anyone who knew my Grandmother knew that when she said something, she meant business. You didn’t refuse her. No, my Grandmother always got her way.
She used to irk me when she would bring up the subject of her funeral. I think she knew it bothered me, but she liked to talk about it. Once, when I was sitting with her in her kitchen years ago, she pushed some papers toward me.
“Those are my funeral arrangements,” she told me.
She insisted I read over them. I remember my only question at the time was: “Doves? You want doves?”
She stared at me and said it was someone else’s suggestion, but I know my Grandmother. She always wanted the very best. As the eulogist, my Dad’s cousin so aptly summarized, my Grandmother was a diva.
I thought about that as I admired the huge, beautiful portrait of her that stood on an easel next to her pearly, white casket. She was dressed to the hilt in the photo wearing a silk, floral dress and a matching hat. That was my Grandmother. I stared at her eyes right before I sang and imagined her telling me: “You better not mess up.”
When it was time, I stood up from the front pew and walked in slow motion toward the microphone. My throat was dry from crying, and I wasn’t 100 percent sure I’d be able to hit the high notes of “The Lord’s Prayer,” but I simply fixed my gaze on a point on the ceiling and sang for my Grandmother. I hope I made her proud. The service was just as she would have liked it. Rather formal. Not too long. Dignified.
I miss my Grandmother terribly. I know time will help heal my broken heart, but I do have peace in knowing she was ready to go. She had complained for awhile of just being tired. And in the end, facing no terminal illness or devastating diagnosis, it is as if she simply willed herself to die. My Grandmother was a very proud woman. She had recently lost her independence, and deep down, I knew she could never live like that. She had a good life. She traveled the world, met Oprah, and lived to vote for the first black President. My Grandmother lived life her way up until the end. And after all was said and done, she even had her doves.
[You can visit this link to see a special pictorial tribute to my Grandmother at: http://bit.ly/d56a8T]
