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Jul. 28th, 2006 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jianantonicMy mom just called to tell me that a good family friend passed away this morning. It's terribly sad, but not tragic - he was very old and in poor health at this point in his life. His 90th birthday would have been next week. He and his wife, who is still living, were my grandmother's closest friends in Nelson County. We weren't related, but they were as close as any family we have. I guess it's hard for me, being the youngest in my generation, to see my grandmother's generation get smaller and smaller, and those that remain getting frailer.
I don't know if I've written much about my grandmother, but even if I have, that's no reason I can't do it again. My dad's mother, Margaret B. Massie, or Marma to us, lived in my house in a mother-in-law's apartment. She moved in with my folks in 1980, when they moved to Charlottesville, to help with my brothers, who were still in elementary school then. My parents worked full time, and Marma was really a primary caregiver to all three of us. I didn't know until I was 5 or 6 that Marma was my grandmother. After all, I called my mom's mother "Gramma," and I didn't realize you could have more than one of those. I thought Marma was her name and that she was just some kind of close friend. My dad's accent is so thick, I didn't realize he was saying "Mother," when he talked to her. Sounded like "Marma" to me.
Marma was spectacular. She was very proud of her old age, proud of how well her mind had stuck with her as she got older. Long before I was born, she'd had a very serious heart attack, and she really changed her lifestyle after that to make sure she'd never suffer that again. She had a few close calls when I was growing up, but she took excellent care of herself, and it was my 15th birthday when she died, suddenly and peacefully, in our home, just two weeks after her 90th birthday. I'm the youngest of her grandchildren, so I got the least Marma time in terms of years, but I probably spent more time with her than anyone else. She and Emily were pretty much tied in the best friend/favorite playmate category when I was growing up, but Marma had the advantage, because she could cook for me and drive me to the park. I knew she was older, but I never thought of Marma as old. Probably because when I was little, she was all too eager to get down on her hands and knees and play cats with me, or go out in the driveway and play catch with me. That's right, catch.
The women in our family are true Steel Magnolias. Southern women to the core, but belles we are not. We are proud athletes and scholars, and fairer sex though we may be, we are not lesser. During the Great Depression, while most families were struggling to get by, Marma was working and putting herself through college, and then a master's program at the University of Virginia. She earned her Master's in History in the early 1930's, and worked as a Latin teacher and school librarian until she retired in the 1960's, I think it was. She came from money, but she married my grandfather, Cap, a poor southern farmer without a high school diploma. I never knew my grandfather - he died of lung disease in 1971 - but he must have been pretty spectacular, too, to win Marma over.
She was 5'4 on a good day, and barely over 100 pounds, if that, but frail she was not. The men in my family (okay, the women, too) are prone to bouts with bad tempers, and I remember one time when I was no older than 4, my oldest brother and my father were having a heated discussion. I got scared, and I ran into Marma's room, crying about how Daddy and William were yelling at each other. Marma picked me up and marched down the stairs to give those "gentlemen" what for. My brothers and father are no small men. Each is well over 6'0, and I'd say they're a pretty intimidating bunch. No matter. Marma broke up that fight and made those boys change their tunes immediately. "You should be ashamed of yourselves! Look how you've made the baby cry!" I remember being offended that she'd referred to me as the baby, but I got over it. They were like dogs with their tails between their legs when she was done with them. You do NOT cross Marma.
I remember the first time I experimented with use of the forbidden words - you know the ones. William, the one who'd taught me the words in the first place, put it to me simply. "Meg, would you want Marma to know you were talking like that?" Well, it worked for a while.
When Marma died, I was devastated. I loved her tremendously - I still do, no less than I ever have - and I wasn't ready to say goodbye, even though she had warned me. In the weeks leading up to her death, she'd been dropping a lot of hints. Telling us that she didn't feel like she had much time left, her body was finally giving out. But she looked healthy - I don't think anyone believed her. The day after she died, our preacher came and talked to us. He told us that he'd met with her, and she'd told him she knew her time had come, and she was ready. In a way, that was truly comforting, and in another way, infuriating. I didn't want her to go. I was still just a child, really, when she died, and it's only been later that I've been able to look back and truly appreciate how lucky I was to have such a woman in my life. Maybe I didn't totally "get" her when she was alive, but my memories are strong, and I still find myself learning from her now, even though she's been physically out of our lives for over eight years now.
I'm lucky, too, that I'm not the only one Marma left such impressions with. Her friends and other family members have stories that can fill hours of conversation. I learn new things about her every time I visit these people. She was an amazing, magnificent woman, and she surrounded herself with wonderful people. In my teenage years, even though I would've preferred to run around with boys and such, I made a point to visit Marma's old friends whenever I went to the farm. She'd lived there most of her adult life, and most of her friends are still in that area. Some are family, some are not. At first, I kind of dreaded these obligatory visits. I did it because I felt I owed it to Marma's memory to be a good southern lady and make calls. I was still the baby of the family; these people wanted to see me. But I quickly learned to look forward to these visits. Marma was close with these people for good reason. I've heard so many stories from these folks about my family, and I've never been prouder to be a Massie.
It's hard, then, to say goodbye to one of Marma's friends, because they've become my friends, too, and it's like saying goodbye to another piece of her. As long as there are stories I haven't heard, it's like I can continue to grow closer to my dearly departed, but when the storytellers are gone, eventually there's just my own memory, and it's all past tense.
I do believe in an afterlife, though. I believe in it because I'd go crazy if I didn't. I have to believe in it. And I guess I can be content for now to know that somehow, these folks know that I think of them all the time, and I love them still. And one day, hopefully, we'll end up in the same place again. I don't believe in hell, either, because if I did believe in it, I'd have to believe I was going there, and no thanks, that's not for me. I'm going to see my friends again, and that will be a good time.
So that was a sad stream of consciousness from my already depressed mind. Forgive me for rambling, and thanks for letting me bask in the wonder that is my family. And the point is, Quaite Tucker, you will be missed, and you will always be loved.
Peace.
I don't know if I've written much about my grandmother, but even if I have, that's no reason I can't do it again. My dad's mother, Margaret B. Massie, or Marma to us, lived in my house in a mother-in-law's apartment. She moved in with my folks in 1980, when they moved to Charlottesville, to help with my brothers, who were still in elementary school then. My parents worked full time, and Marma was really a primary caregiver to all three of us. I didn't know until I was 5 or 6 that Marma was my grandmother. After all, I called my mom's mother "Gramma," and I didn't realize you could have more than one of those. I thought Marma was her name and that she was just some kind of close friend. My dad's accent is so thick, I didn't realize he was saying "Mother," when he talked to her. Sounded like "Marma" to me.
Marma was spectacular. She was very proud of her old age, proud of how well her mind had stuck with her as she got older. Long before I was born, she'd had a very serious heart attack, and she really changed her lifestyle after that to make sure she'd never suffer that again. She had a few close calls when I was growing up, but she took excellent care of herself, and it was my 15th birthday when she died, suddenly and peacefully, in our home, just two weeks after her 90th birthday. I'm the youngest of her grandchildren, so I got the least Marma time in terms of years, but I probably spent more time with her than anyone else. She and Emily were pretty much tied in the best friend/favorite playmate category when I was growing up, but Marma had the advantage, because she could cook for me and drive me to the park. I knew she was older, but I never thought of Marma as old. Probably because when I was little, she was all too eager to get down on her hands and knees and play cats with me, or go out in the driveway and play catch with me. That's right, catch.
The women in our family are true Steel Magnolias. Southern women to the core, but belles we are not. We are proud athletes and scholars, and fairer sex though we may be, we are not lesser. During the Great Depression, while most families were struggling to get by, Marma was working and putting herself through college, and then a master's program at the University of Virginia. She earned her Master's in History in the early 1930's, and worked as a Latin teacher and school librarian until she retired in the 1960's, I think it was. She came from money, but she married my grandfather, Cap, a poor southern farmer without a high school diploma. I never knew my grandfather - he died of lung disease in 1971 - but he must have been pretty spectacular, too, to win Marma over.
She was 5'4 on a good day, and barely over 100 pounds, if that, but frail she was not. The men in my family (okay, the women, too) are prone to bouts with bad tempers, and I remember one time when I was no older than 4, my oldest brother and my father were having a heated discussion. I got scared, and I ran into Marma's room, crying about how Daddy and William were yelling at each other. Marma picked me up and marched down the stairs to give those "gentlemen" what for. My brothers and father are no small men. Each is well over 6'0, and I'd say they're a pretty intimidating bunch. No matter. Marma broke up that fight and made those boys change their tunes immediately. "You should be ashamed of yourselves! Look how you've made the baby cry!" I remember being offended that she'd referred to me as the baby, but I got over it. They were like dogs with their tails between their legs when she was done with them. You do NOT cross Marma.
I remember the first time I experimented with use of the forbidden words - you know the ones. William, the one who'd taught me the words in the first place, put it to me simply. "Meg, would you want Marma to know you were talking like that?" Well, it worked for a while.
When Marma died, I was devastated. I loved her tremendously - I still do, no less than I ever have - and I wasn't ready to say goodbye, even though she had warned me. In the weeks leading up to her death, she'd been dropping a lot of hints. Telling us that she didn't feel like she had much time left, her body was finally giving out. But she looked healthy - I don't think anyone believed her. The day after she died, our preacher came and talked to us. He told us that he'd met with her, and she'd told him she knew her time had come, and she was ready. In a way, that was truly comforting, and in another way, infuriating. I didn't want her to go. I was still just a child, really, when she died, and it's only been later that I've been able to look back and truly appreciate how lucky I was to have such a woman in my life. Maybe I didn't totally "get" her when she was alive, but my memories are strong, and I still find myself learning from her now, even though she's been physically out of our lives for over eight years now.
I'm lucky, too, that I'm not the only one Marma left such impressions with. Her friends and other family members have stories that can fill hours of conversation. I learn new things about her every time I visit these people. She was an amazing, magnificent woman, and she surrounded herself with wonderful people. In my teenage years, even though I would've preferred to run around with boys and such, I made a point to visit Marma's old friends whenever I went to the farm. She'd lived there most of her adult life, and most of her friends are still in that area. Some are family, some are not. At first, I kind of dreaded these obligatory visits. I did it because I felt I owed it to Marma's memory to be a good southern lady and make calls. I was still the baby of the family; these people wanted to see me. But I quickly learned to look forward to these visits. Marma was close with these people for good reason. I've heard so many stories from these folks about my family, and I've never been prouder to be a Massie.
It's hard, then, to say goodbye to one of Marma's friends, because they've become my friends, too, and it's like saying goodbye to another piece of her. As long as there are stories I haven't heard, it's like I can continue to grow closer to my dearly departed, but when the storytellers are gone, eventually there's just my own memory, and it's all past tense.
I do believe in an afterlife, though. I believe in it because I'd go crazy if I didn't. I have to believe in it. And I guess I can be content for now to know that somehow, these folks know that I think of them all the time, and I love them still. And one day, hopefully, we'll end up in the same place again. I don't believe in hell, either, because if I did believe in it, I'd have to believe I was going there, and no thanks, that's not for me. I'm going to see my friends again, and that will be a good time.
So that was a sad stream of consciousness from my already depressed mind. Forgive me for rambling, and thanks for letting me bask in the wonder that is my family. And the point is, Quaite Tucker, you will be missed, and you will always be loved.
Peace.
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-30 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 03:03 am (UTC)Was Maw your grandmother or great-grandmother?
My family is really slow to reproduce, and Marma is actually older than all of Jeremy's great-grandparents.
Anyway I'm glad you had that sort of relationship with your Maw, too. It makes me sad to hear people complain about not getting along with their grandparents. I just think they're lucky to still have them. I only ever knew my grandmothers, and both died when I was a teenager. I hope if I do have kids (big if), they're able to enjoy long relationships with my parents.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 11:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-01 02:59 am (UTC)One of the odder things about her was her habit of counting cars. The House out in Bedford (which my parents are retiring to in a few years) has a big picture window out front, and she would sit there in her little chair (my cousins and I called it the Toilet Chair, because the middle of the seat was sagging) and click her little clicker and count those cars. One day she was talking to my mom on the phone, and mentioned she had "a new hobby." My mom asked her what it was, and she said "Counting trucks!" I never quite understood it myself, but I would sit there in Grandaddy's big recliner (this was after he died) and read my Readers Digests (circa 1987) and watch her count the cars on the highway.
I wrote her a poem for my 5th grade English project, when we had to write poetry about a person (I think that was the assignment). My parents printed it out and helped me frame it, along with a photo of her at my Aunt Gloria's wedding, and I gave it to her for her birthday one year. It came back to me when she died, although it's still at Mom and Dad's house. I should bring it up here sometime.
While I'm at it, I should mention Aunt Beulah. She was Mallie's younger sister (Mallie was third, Beulah was 7th, and my grandaddy Lloyd was 8th), and I get the impression she was the "feisty" one. (Those three are the only ones of the 8 children I remember ever meeting.) Beulah got married, got divorced, married again, and was widowed. (I think she's the only person in my mom's close-ish family to have gotten a divorce, but I'm not positive.) Shortly after she was widowed, she started keeping a loaded .22 rifle in the front hall closet, "just in case." I never knew about this (we didn't visit her all that often--usually she would come out to the House in Bedford to visit everyone), but it's a great story after the fact.
Thanks for provoking more family-basking. :-) It's good to keep these stories alive.
no subject
Date: 2006-08-01 03:02 am (UTC)2. While talking about Beulah, I should mention that her first husband was her sister Verna's widower. Verna was the 4th, if I recall correctly. Crazy stuff.