We Weren't Ready

So, you know that picture of Fiona scowling during our family pictures … that is how I’ve felt about blogging lately. I mean, last night, the blog was going to lose anyway because it was the freestyle round of Dancing with the Stars and no one can compete with that. But in general, crossed arms, scowl face. I think it’s because I don’t want to write this post.

My grandma died. She was 101 and almost a half. Strike that, she was 101 and a half. She was within a week of the half. I’m not an accountant like my dad. In marketing, that’s simply a rounding error. She gets the half. It’s weird to say that someone passing at 101 (and a half) is a surprise. But dang it, it caught all of us by complete surprise!

At her 101^st birthday party in May (you know, where we forgot to sing happy birthday to her), she told us to get everyone home for number 102. So everyone was coming home for number 102. Because we believed her. And we weren’t ready. She was the best.

My Uncle Eric gave the most wonderful eulogy at her funeral. I couldn’t top it if I tried. My mom did Grandma proud and baked her most famous recipes (chocolate chip cookies and fudge) for the reception after the funeral. She would have been happy. She liked nothing better than feeding people (I get that from her). If a sixth love language was feeding people, Grandma and I would be the poster children.

I couldn’t have written her story any better either. She lived a good, looong life. She was so loved. She had a great final day. And she went peacefully in her sleep with no drama and no suffering. But we weren’t ready. Because she was the best.

My mom taught me to cook. And gave me the freedom in her kitchen to cook like I do – which is much more how my grandma cooked. My mom is the cleanest cooker (a Q word) that you have ever seen. She can make a four-course meal and her kitchen is spotless. I can make toast and my kitchen looks like I made a four-course meal. I’m just a messy cook. I blame Grandma. She taught me how to use my instincts in the kitchen. I’m notorious for using recipes as guidelines. I rarely measure. I smell what I’m cooking and stop adding things when it “smells right.”

Grandma would always tell me that cooking this way had risks. Sometimes it’s a big ol’ dud. But as you learn and practice, you can take a good recipe and make it great. I’m not afraid to fail in the kitchen. I hate it when I do. But I’m not afraid. Quinn cooks like me. She will already say things like “mama, it doesn’t smell right yet.” My favorite is when my mom likes something I made and asks me for the recipe. She also usually asks if I followed it. When my answer is “some of it,” she’ll always say, “you’re as bad as my mom.”

Right after Mike and I bought the house, I got an itch to plant a peony plant (my mom and grandma had the best peonies when I was growing up). I didn’t want any old peony and found the one I wanted after way too much internet research. The catch was that I had to plant the root. So I told Grandma my plan. In addition to being a great cook, she had a green hand. Not just a thumb. The whole hand. Knowing that patience was not my strongest character quality, she advised against that. “Honey, do you know how long that will take to flower? It will be years before you get a single bud. Can you really wait that long without giving up?”

All her grandkids (and a great)
sent her off with a toast

Here’s the thing. Grandma also knew a thing or two about dealing with stubborn people. So I dug in and told her that “of course I could wait that long. How dare she doubt me?” And then each spring when that stupid peony grew but didn’t flower, I resisted the urge to dig it out because I needed to prove to Grandma that I could last. She knew that. She was wily! This last spring, there were three beautiful flowers on my plant. By the time Fiona graduates from high school, we’ll be rolling in peonies … and those flowers will remind me of her every year. Which is perfect – because they always bloom right around her birthday.

I could write for days and not do her justice. She left a hole in our family and we miss her to the depths of our being. But when I look around my own little house (and not even out to the extended family), I see she’s not gone. Fiona’s big heart comes from her. I feel her with Quinn and me every time we destroy the kitchen. And Declan, his joyful spirit and laugh remind me of her. They can both fill a room with happiness.

101 (and a half). 112. 125. We were never going to be ready. She really is the best.