My Grandmother Had a Sense of Humor

It occurred to me, last week, as I stood outside in 2 degree weather by her graveside, that my grandmother had a sense of humor. She loved family gatherings and really enjoyed the jocularity, the food, and the entertainment. Last week we had all three and it was a shame she wasn't there to enjoy it. But perhaps she did. It was the coldest winter Concord, New Hampshire has seen in five years and she got us all there, all together, and all outside.

My grandmother was a great baker and a fine fisherman. I spent much of my summers in Maine while growing up on her side of the lake, in the camp my mother helped build and all but grew up in herself. Their camp was a a 20 minute car ride or better yet, a 25 minute boat ride away. There was always candy in the jar on the table (pink peppermints and caramel bullseyes) and Orange Crush in the fridge. The best part about being at Grammie and Grandfather's was all the attention that I got. Grammie would almost always play cards and could usually be convinced to go swimming with me, something that my own mother only submitted to once or twice a summer and only in a dire heatwave. This was Maine, after all, and the ice only melts in April or May.

In July, Grammie would greet me as I arrived with a pyrex liquid measuring cup. She would carefully show me the mark I needed to know and send me back out to scout for berries. Of course, she had usually gotten all the easy berries, but if I could find enough, there would be a fresh blueberry pie with dinner. Picking for my grandmother taught me to pick quick and pick clean. If she had to sort and throw out green berries, I was going to have to go back out and get more. That skill has stuck: show me a blueberry bush and I will get all the blues with no stems or leaves quick as you please. And fresh blueberry pie is still my favorite.

I suspect that she wasn't nearly as prim as she represented herself to be, but it was entertaining to hold on to that pretense. One summer, my brother and I learned the fine card game called "Bullshit." I think we had to call it "Ratfink" or something, but now I suspect that "Ratfink" was another game entirely... I'll have to Google it. My grandmother thought the game was a stitch (her words) but we had to call out "you fibber!" instead of the obvious accusation for bluffing. It was a hit all summer long. She was a lover of cribbage, a total Yankee game if there ever was one, and I regret that I never mastered it.

In later years, she couldn't get up to Maine alone and I suspect that it just wasn't the same without Grandfather. She sold both camps (she also had one on Moosehead) and eventually sold the house on Coolidge Avenue where she had such huge gardens. Until October, she lived on her own, on her own terms and at ninety years old, that was a feat. She loved her family and she adored Alastair. She will be missed.