A Tribute to a Beloved Woman

My grandmother passed away.

My Uncle John called to give me the news, and I listened with the phone pressed to my ear, feeling a perplexing mix of emotion.

Sorrow, of course, and loss. Relief that her illness, which confined her to dependency and inactivity, was at an end. And guilt, for feeling the latter, and for not visiting her more often, and for not taking the time to learn her stories before the onslaught of her dementia. In short, for not valuing her as she deserved while I still had her.

At the funeral, in typical Riley fashion, there were few tears. Funerals are a paradox, aren't they? Not really a time for grieving, after all, but a time for healing and for appreciating. I looked around at my family, her gift to me, and I was thankful. I looked at her great grandchildren playing with one another, their voices raised in oblivious joy, and acknowledged that she would never really be gone.

When I think of my grandmother, I think of:

Gardens. My grandmother had a passion for growing things. Her house was a bounty of growing things, both inside and out. On outtings, she often returned with her pockets rustling with seeds or clippings that she had filtched.

The click of her heels on her tiled floors. Tap tap tap. Grandma never wore laced shoes. She preferred the simplicity of the slip-on shoe, and they were generally hard soled with a low heel.

The ticking of a clock. To this day, the ticking of a clock feels hallowed to my heart. Grandma was a collector, and her home was filled with the ticking and chiming of thousands of clocks.

The distant cry of a train, as I snuggled deep in bed, smelling both fresh linens and dusty, musty collections.

Grandma's voice, clipped and sharp, as she called my grandfather. "Riley!" Never mind that all the Riley men may have been a voice throw away. We all knew who she meant.

The smell of Listerine. Religiously, Grandma and Grandpa both rinsed with Listerine every morning. The yellow stuff felt like it was boiling the tender flesh from you mouth.....as a child, I could never bear to hold it in my mouth for more than a second. Not to mention it tasted terrible!!! But, I loved the smell of it on them.

A package of Halls Mentholyptus in the cabinet drawer, near the heavy, black dial phone. My brother, Rob, and I would eat Halls like they were candy.

Rob and me spinning on the recliner in the living room....around and around, like a carnival ride. Then Grandma would bark from the kitchen, "You kids stop that!" Children never fully realize that sound travels, so we were always amazed at her omniscience.

Grandma's Chocolate Crazy Cake.....the best chocolate cake in the whole world. She would bake it in a cast iron skillet.

The smell of dust. Grandma was collector of many things. Her home was a clutter because of it. Her cabinets and shelves were crammed with bottles, vases, crocks, and figurines. Don't forget the clocks! Beside the chairs were stacks of magazines, paper back novels, and newspapers. Life was for living, not for cleaning up. So, Grandma's house was always dusty (they lived on a farm and beside a dirt road....nothing short of obsession would have kept it clean). Everything you touched left a faint film on the fingertips. As a child, I would sweep and sweep and sweep the tile floors.

The chalk board. At the bottom of the stairs, Grandma had an old-fashioned, black, slate, chalkboard hanging on the wall. There were always fat sticks of chalk and orange railroad rags for erasers. As the oldest grandchild, I was always the teacher and my cousins were the students.

Whipped butter and Hi-Cee Fruit Punch. Grandma always had it, and we kids couldn't get enough of it. My upper lip would be permanently stained pink or orange, and at meals I would butter bread for everyone, loving the smooth spread of the whipped butter, until Grandma would tell me to quit buttering bread, "for heaven's sake!"

The sound of her playing the piano. She was only an amateur player, and she played only simple melodies....but the image of her freckled fingers with the square-cut nails on the keyboard and the tinkling tunes are forever etched on my brain. I also remember, with amusement, her irritation when I, a non-piano player, pointed out a fingering error she was consistently making (I had played clarinet for years, by that time, and my ear knew that the natural following the flat was wrong. I explained how, within the same stanza, if the first note was flat, so were the subsequents). Her piano now graces my home. I cannot play; maybe some day, when I am gray and my fingers are spotted like hers were? But, even though the piano is mute and sadly out of tune, I take pleasure in having it near me.

Her hands. My fingers and the squarish curve of the heel that forms the thumb are just like hers. But where her nails were clean, short, and clipped square (hard working, efficient hands), mine are bitten and ragged. She would scold me if she saw them now.

Vast Easter Egg hunts. All us cousins together, searching the great big yard for eggs hidden in the various flower plots, pots, and the grass. No running barefoot....watch out for bees.

At Christmas, Grandma always let us select an ornament from her tree to take home with us. From this little collection were the ornaments that would grace my own trees, when I finally had my own home. Ornaments that were all the more precious for the memories they carried. I treasured this tradition so much that I incorporated it, to a fashion, with my nieces and nephews. Every Christmas I decorate their gift with a single Christmas ornament.

She didn't say, "I love you." The Rileys simply didn't do that. Actions speak louder than words, and we knew how much she loved us by the birthday cakes, little treasures, glances and reprimands, and the twinkle in her eye while twisted her smile against a laugh.

Today, thinking of my grandmother, my heart aches. I miss her!!! But, at the same time, I have no choice but to smile, because my memory is swimming with millions of happy thoughts and sensations, all because of her.