Grammy Mary Anne

This weekend is my MIL's celebration of life. She died in August, and with five children who each started their own families, planning a funeral where everyone can attend isn’t easy. Family has been arriving all week, and suddenly I'm crying—at weird times during the day—out of nowhere.

It was easy to pretend Mary Anne was still with us. I’d run across her picture, then see her in my mind at the facility where she lived. Many times, I’d think I needed to pop in and surprise her before reality hit. A melancholy feeling would wash over me, but recalling something she might do or say, I’d tell her aloud how much I missed her. Then, I’d move on.

That ability ends tomorrow, and it makes me very sad.

Our relationship began thirty-plus years ago, and differed from my husband’s. I used to say I could move Mary Anne into my house and care for her much easier than I could my mother. First, they were completely different, and second, Mary Anne wasn’t my mother.

We moved her into our house once. It was during a hurricane that threatened to obliterate our county, and it was one of the few times I heard fear in her voice. Most of the time, she maintained a Panglossian outlook, and hearing that tremor urged me to collect her. She met me at the door, carrying a suitcase and her jewelry box, and we laughed all the way back to the house about how I was moving her closer to the water. On the night of the hurricane, we laughed and talked so much that Tom left the makeshift shelter to sleep elsewhere. 

Our relationship went through phases. There was the introduction phase when we were on our best behavior. Friendly. The mother observing the girlfriend. Me trying to prove I loved her son. That ended one day in the house I helped Tom renovate. Mary Anne pulled me aside and told me not to worry. She’d asked Tom when he would ask me to marry him, and he’d told her he had it all planned. She liked to think she pushed him.

She and Roger welcomed me into the family. Unlike my family, they didn't push into our lives or offer advice. But if we needed them, we asked, and they answered. Otherwise, they let us figure it out. Adjusting to that hands-off style was hard at first, but I came to appreciate that, especially when hearing others complain about their in-laws. 

Our next phase came during motherhood. That secret society where you exchange glances and instantly understand each other. She approached grandparenting differently than she did parenting, deciding early on that hugs were important and her advice spot-on. I remember she’d enter our house as usual, talking—and talking loudly. When I’d shush her and tell her the baby was sleeping, she’d laugh, clap her hands, and say the kid needed to learn to sleep through noise. 

She was the grandmother who got down on the floor with my kids in her bare feet, unafraid of dirt. “We’ll wash that off,” she’d say. Mary Anne bragged about my girls. Took them on shopping trips. Taught them piano. Shared her love of theater. One of our favorite trips was taking her to New York to see Broadway shows. 

She had almost a child-like quality to her. A sense of wonder, as if seeing everything for the first time. It could come across as naïve, but Mary Anne was anything but that. Though she often shrugged off life concerns, she worried in private and prayed for everyone. She was quite intelligent. A problem solver. And she never shied away from her strengths. By golly, she knew shit, and she’d fall on her sword before she let you tell her otherwise. I loved that about her.

Our last phase was the best. Two adults with grown children, relating on a different level than anything we’d experienced prior. I learned what she was like as a young girl on a trip together, where she told me the story of traveling to California on a whim. She and her girlfriends answered an ad in the paper placed by two men seeking rideshare partners, and off they went. I remember thinking, “I don’t know this woman at all.”

I set out to rectify that.

And she was eager to share. 

She always supported my writing. When I began blogging, she read my site daily. When she asked for my help with her autobiography, she soaked in everything I could teach. In the end, she wrote me a check. It horrified me that she believed I would take money. She waved her finger and shook her head. “Always believe you're worth the money because otherwise you’ll never convince others you’re great at what you do. Never sell yourself short.” I cashed the check.

We shared the gift of gab. She loved hearing my stories as much as I loved hearing hers. We solved many of the world's problems in our talks, and we both agreed that if everyone would just listen to us, his or her life would be a hundred percent better. 

She went into widowhood, deciding it was her time now. She did what she wanted. Went where she wanted. And she put the knives in the dishwasher instead of washing them by hand as Roger always made us do. “I say, 'Oh, well, Roger, that’s the way it’s going to be now. Deal with it.'”
After hearing about her life as a young woman, I told her it surprised me that she married and settled down. She shrugged. “Back then, society expected us to marry. I didn’t think about challenging that.” 

I went through several years of caring for my mother. She spent time in almost every county facility. Mary Anne appeared at least once at each of those, bringing flowers and spending time with my mother. My family was always included in any Boos' event and holiday too. 

I could be silly with Mary Anne. Say things no one else dared. She knew I was honest with her, and when I went overboard, she’d stick out her tongue—Mary Anne’s version of giving me the finger. She also used choice words with me. Then, she'd laugh and say she’d probably go to hell for voicing that aloud.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect. Life isn’t. I’m sure sometimes I annoyed her as she did me. Yet those were scarce, especially in the last fifteen years, and I wouldn’t change any of them. We had many laughs. I loved the old gal. 

I’m so glad I told her all of that.

Rest well, Grammy. I hope wherever you landed, you’re still praying for us in between entertaining the masses.

Thank you for welcoming me into your family and loving me unconditionally. I will miss you.