All About Freda

Every time I go to make fried eggs or grilled cheese I am reminded that I lost my last grandparent this past August. It is the teflon scar where the butter charred after I got the phone call that always hits me each time I see it. You'd think I would get used to it, part of me is afraid of exactly such a thing.

My grandmother Freda was one tough cookie. She kept her canned red hair until she moved into her retirement home at the age of 90. I guess at that point she decided to finally give up the illusion of youth. I mean, who are you trying to kid living in an old age home?

She was a widow for my entire life, since 1976 and this stunted her. I can hardly imagine being alone with my own thoughts for one whole day, let alone an entire lifetime. Noone to bounce your ideas off of, tell you your nuts and then make you laugh afterwards. These are the keys to my sanity and I know without them I would also be a challenging broad to spend time with. This led my grandmother to worry about money in a way that drove everyone in my already fairly frugal family bonkers.
This, along with various events occurring prior to my birth solidified a strained relationship between my gramma and my father, her son. And hooey, do kids learn from example. As we grew, we just didn't treat my gramm all that nicely. Ok, maybe nicely, but not warmly, not so much like family.

And then along came my husband and he asked me early on in our relationship why everyone was so mean to gramma, and I really didn't know why. Yes, she was difficult, yes, she was stubborn, but these are not reasons enough. And this alternative view, this newcomer's pointed insight shocked me, and eventually my brother too, out of our stupor. And I'm not saying it was all roses, I still got angry sometimes and lost my temper, and rolled my eyes, BUT I also laughed and hugged and made jokes and enjoyed.

My gramma died in a way that we should all choose to go. She felt lousy on a Wednesday, went into hospital and Friday and died on Saturday. Kaboom. The downside for the living is there is no time to accept, to deal, to ok yourself with the inevitable. But of course, this is a small price to pay, and since she paid the ultimate price here, who are we to quibble.

And so, its important that I put into writing that I loved my gramma. Her prickly edges, her mushy insides, her easy laugh and her nubby knuckles. And she loved me, and she loved my daughter. My fry pan is a reminder of all of these things, so many words to find in a charred teflon surface.