RIP, Grandma

As he was leaving my engagement party, my grandfather turned to me and said, "My last wish now is to dance at your wedding!" He didn't make it.

Now, almost 27 years later, Grandma has joined him in heaven. When Grandpa met her at the pearly gates, I think one of the first things he said was, "Mary, I owe you a dance!"

Grandma would have been 100-years-old on Nov. 26, 2010. The last 15+ years of her life were spent in a nursing home as dementia gradually claimed her mind and body. But that's not how I will remember my fiercely independent grandmother.

I always considered Grandma to be somewhat of a feminist long before the term was defined. A product of the Depression, she quit school after receiving an elementary-level education so she could work to help support her family.

Shortly after she and Grandpa became engaged, Grandma's fiery spirit sparked an argument that almost changed the course of our family's history. As the story goes, she wanted to go dancing, but Grandpa did not.

"Well, I'm going without you!" Grandma said.

"Oh no, you won't!" Grandpa replied.

"Oh yes, I will!"

"Then, give me that ring back!"

Grandma complied and went on with her evening. The incident postponed their nuptials, but they (obviously) later reconciled.

After they married, Grandma continued to work full-time as a seamstress, eventually becoming a forelady at Sherman's sewing factory in Orange, NJ. She made most of her own clothes, always in the latest styles. She prided herself on being a salaried employee throughout her career, while Grandpa had "only" worked on commission as a salesman. She was thrifty and disciplined about saving money, yet she treated herself to a weekly hair appointment at "the beauty parlor." When I was old enough, Grandma shared her passion for sewing and crocheting (she made beautiful afghans) with me, although I never mastered them the way she did. She also encouraged me to patronize her "girl" to have my hair done, often pressing money into my hand to fund my visit.

I have cozy memories of Saturday nights at Grandma's where Anthony and I were treated to pan-fried lamb chops, Kool-Aid (something my mother refused to buy!), and staying up past bedtime to watch Mary Tyler Moore.

During my recovery from spondylolisthesis surgery, my parents gave me one of Dad's police whistles to summon them from the second floor, since I was confined to bed in the dining room. One afternoon, Dad was upstairs asleep after working the midnight shift. I don't remember what I needed; only that I kept blowing the whistle with all of my breath and he didn't respond. Panicked, I called Grandma thinking something had happened to Dad. "I'm sure he's alright, but I'll be right there," she assured me. Minutes later, I heard her coming through the back door after speed-walking (she didn't drive) up our street -- one of the longest, steepest hills in West Orange. After checking on me, she charged up to my parents' bedroom and brought my sleepy, bewildered father to my bedside to confirm all was well.

Together with Grandpa, Grandma was the focal point of my extended family. She brought us together every Sunday for dinner -- a meal that always included amazingly moist meatballs. And, afterwards, as I watched from the corner stool in the kitchen, Grandma and her sister, Rose, would good-naturedly argue about who would do the dishes, their cackling laughter reverbertaing off the walls and tin ceiling.

I feel so blessed to have had Grandma in my life and I'm comforted knowing that she is finally at peace. When I think of her now, I can't help but smile at the image of her and Grandpa, dancing again among the stars.