I called her “Big Grandmother” for most of my childhood. She was neither tall nor big-boned — in fact, she was quite petite — but her personality and her expectations were towering and often overwhelming.
All through her 80s, she was described as “active” or “spry.” When she turned 90, she got cancer. While the surgery to remove the cancer succeeded, the anesthesia took its toll on her mind and dementia set in almost immediately after. Even in her altered state, she stayed busy. In her mind, she was cooking for everyone in the nursing home, keeping the house safe from predators and re-living the lifetime she spent as a nurse at the shipyard in her beloved Newport News, Virginia. At 95 years old, her final shift ended.
It has been 10 years since she died and this week would have been her birthday, so I wanted to take a few moments to remember her.
We often consider long life to be a blessing without thinking of its requisite curses, the slow failing of the body and mind and the loss of virtually all siblings and family members, outliving one’s spouse. My grandmother lived 30 years longer than her husband. That’s long enough to have an entire career. For a woman as outgoing and extroverted as my grandmother, the lonliness of that really took its toll at times.
We didn’t always get along and while I’m sure many words could be used to describe both of us, “nice” doesn’t fit well in either case. She wasn’t necessarily a nice person, but she was a good person. She loved me and I loved her.
When it came to me, her mission was threefold. She wanted to make sure I was well-educated, had a good understanding of history, and had some meat on my bones. She accomplished the first two, but it didn’t matter how many home-cooked meals or milkshakes she made me, I wasn’t going to gain weight like a normal person until I hit 35. If she were to see me today, she would never believe the weight gain I have achieved, and would probably complain that I eat too much.
She sent me a check every month from the time I entered elementary school until I graduated high school for $25. I got to keep $5 and the other $20 went into a savings account for my college education. The sum total at the end of 12th grade wasn’t quite enough to do the job, but who could’ve expected the spike in college tuitions or the fact that I’d get accepted into a private college. Once I got to college, she paid for my room and board.
Being a proud Virginian, Grandma took me on the tour of all the historic places the state has to offer like Jamestown, Yorktown and Colonial Williamsburg. Knowledge of history was one of her sticking points and no visit would be complete without some sort of attempt to make me into a budding historian. The trick worked, to this day I prefer historical documentaries and biographies to the reality television and celebrity culture that has become painfully prominent of late. By the time she and my mother took me to Washington D.C. in fourth grade, I had gotten to the point where the Smithsonian was my favorite part of the trip.
When she would visit us, I would stand at the front door waiting ever so patiently for her Buick to pull into the driveway. The model and color of said Buick would change frequently, but my grandmother always drove a Buick and would consider it insulting to suggest that any other car might be as well-manufactured.
Anyway, I would eagerly anticipate my grandmother’s arrival for days. Grandma’s Buick pulling in the driveway meant trips to 7-11 every day after school to get a Slurpee. It meant listening to her stories and telling a few of my own — and it meant she would be taking over the cooking operations at the Clark household for the next week or so.
My grandmother lived to cook. She was the type who would wake up and cook bacon and eggs every morning, start preparing lunch after the kitchen was clear from breakfast and then go to the market to buy supplies for dinner (supper as she called it,) which she would begin preparing just about 30 minutes after laying on the couch to “rest her weary bones.” Once the meal was cooked and on the table, she’d take the first bite and remark, “Well, I declare, that is some kind of good.”
This was her greatest passion for 92 out of her 95 years. The first signs we had of her dementia were quite telling. She would finish a meal and then ask, “When do we eat?”
For the last three years, she didn’t have a clue who I was. Sometimes she knew I was her grandson, but she couldn’t remember my name. Other times she thought I was my dad. And for about a three-month period in 2014, I was a man she knew in Virginia named Bacon. However, unless dementia comes for me as well, I will never forget her.
Big Grandmother. Your big expectations and big personality helped shape me in ways I probably don’t even realize just yet. I will remember you fondly. Lastly, I’m sorry. I am sorry for all of the times the large generation gap between us made it hard for us to understand one another. I’m also sorry for the times I didn’t appreciate you or your sacrifices enough. I have come to realize that you kept the wheels on the track in our family, even when I didn’t notice.
You lived through the depression, raised my daddy, and worked harder at everything you did than I’ve ever seen anyone work before or since. I always respected you for those things even if I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Oh — I’m also sorry I never finished paying you back for that Super Nintendo I convinced you I had to have. In hindsight, I probably didn’t actually need it that much.
B.T. Clark is the Publisher of The Georgia Sun and author of Principles Are Like Pants… You Ought to Have Some. Over two decades in journalism, he has served as Managing Editor of Neighbor Newspapers in metro Atlanta and Digital Director at Times-Journal Inc., earning multiple awards along the way. His work has appeared in newspapers across the state, including The Cherokee Tribune and The Marietta Daily Journal.
- B.T. Clark
- B.T. Clark
- B.T. Clark
- B.T. Clark
