The Chicago Grandma

My 93 year old grandmother died yesterday.
She was my long-distance grandma as a child.
She was a remarkable woman.
She spoke two languages, wrote a book, and traveled by car, boat, and plane.
She lived deeply, and loved deeply.  
She loved books and word games.  A Tree Grows in Brooklyn sits on my shelf.  It came from hers.
She taught us how to play scrabble...and never let us win.  Instead, she encouraged us to learn.
She valued her heritage, both her parents being first generation Americans from Sweden.  When I was in college, she went to Sweden for a visit and had a fabulous time.
She loved good food.  Pickled herring and lingonberry jam, swedish pancakes, swedish meatballs over mashed potatoes, scrambled eggs cooked with real butter, and pickles from ALDI.  That's one thing she missed when she moved to Door County, was ALDI and their pickles..so she said the last time we visited her.  I should have sent her a jar for Christmas.  We like their pickles too.
She loved her Lord and her Lutheran church home.  Her book was about it's history.  Her life, demonstrating service at every opportunity.
She loved her family.  She cherished every moment we had together, though they were few and far between.

I have a conglomeration of odd memories.  I remember her complimenting my other grandma's tacos.  I remember a rush of cleaning to get ready for her visit, for she appreciated a tidy home.  I remember scrabble, and rummy 500 games that included our entire family.  I remember lots of cooking, of cardoman coffee cake braids, and swedish meatballs simmering on the stove.  Then there were our visits to her.  I remember eating at a greek place, the Studio, & Hackneys in Chicago.  I remember my first fascination with art  and science in it's museums.  I remember her house and the busy street it was on, and thinking the bushes in her back yard were olives.  I remember being shown a town-home in another part of town and the lament of a fireplace left behind.  I remember the beautiful things throughout her home.  I remember a gift of a stone bird whistle from a shop, my most prized possession for years.  I remember my uncle's boat, and the wonder of sleeping on the water.  I still love being near water and trees.
 I remember the muslin wedding dress prototype that didn't fit, and going to be fitted for my real one.  I remember her on my wedding day.  I remember taking a van up there to fetch a table and a couch when she was moving out of her house, admitting the yard was a bit much for her to maintain.   I remember her sense of victory in getting our baby to eat a banana, who had always HATED bananas before.  I remember our last visit with her, in her apartment with a few chosen and cherished things, watching her sit at a table and play scrabble with my oldest son, who  hasn't eaten another banana since.  She let him win.  Maybe it was the magic of being a great-grandson.
  I remember a chaotic meal with my uncle and aunt, strained conversation about children and bats.  I remember her face beaming to have several of her chicks gathered in one place.  That's where my memories of her freeze in place.  We always meant to go back one more time.  It wasn't long after that visit her health started to fade.   Now she's joined Clarence, who I barely remember, in the grave.

I have a few pictures.  I have my wedding dress she made for me, probably her last major sewing project, for even then she was almost 80.  I have the imprints she's made in my personality and my tastes, and I have her blue eyes.  Here's hoping as I grow older, I also have her sense of adventure and joy in life.