I knew my grandmothers. I also knew my great grandmothers—one lived in a house built into the front of a hill in Boyne City, Michigan. The floor, linoleum, was not level, but ran downward on a slant. Great grandma Jacobson, the descendant of Swedish immigrants, lived on a prime piece of real estate, overlooking Lake Charlevoix. The view was spectacular. Every time a child was born, my great grandfather, an original Swede from a sailing ship, would add on another room. I visited there one time, in the summer. Great grandma was a little old woman with a little old stove. I attended her funeral a few years later. Most of her sons were there too. They loved to crack jokes. Some included my great grandmother, in clear view in her open casket. Their humor centered around the idea of my great grandmother suddenly sitting up during the service. Her daughter, my great aunt, told her brothers to stop. She was more reserved than her siblings and thought the dead should be respected. They just laughed though and answered, “If Ma were here, she’d laugh too!”
Grandmothers are all sorts of people, by so many names, Nana, Nona, Gram, Grandma, Grammy, Mimi….Recently I found out that I’m to be a grandmother too. A grandma? Me? I don’t feel old enough for this regal title!
I’ll need to think about this. Will I be the joking grandma who would laugh during a funeral? Or will I be the type that promises homemade waffles and then sneaks sweet potatoes into the batter?
Another grandma-relative I know regularly handed out jelly beans to her many grandkids. When her turn arrived to go to Heaven, a bag of jelly beans was placed under her arm in the open casket. That’s how she was known and remembered by her grandkids—and one of those kids, helped himself before the coffin closed. A last gift. A good memory.
(C) Kelly Jadon, 2021
