Guesstimator

My grandmother died on April 21st. I went to her funeral on Wednesday and said goodbye to a body, to a woman I didn't really know.

I sat at the funeral home, staring at her casket during the viewing/visitation on Tuesday thinking about what I would miss about her. My views were so negative. I felt she was this stubbon old woman who loved her junk more than anything else. She had strong opinions about the world, politics, and sometimes those views were incorrect. Opinions can be wrong when they are not based on fact, but on unobjective, false "facts." However, I wasn't viewing her in the right context. My grandmother had some money, not enough to make her a millionaire or even a hundred-thousand-aire, but enough that when people came to visit, she paid for meals out. We always went out while there. If one of her children or grandchildren needed to borrow money, she would whip out her checkbook and fill in those blanks. And while she expected payment of that loan, she had a long grace period and no interest.

I didn't see genorosity where I should have. I didn't see a woman who had a tough life and just wanted to leave something for her children to make their lives easier. She was undemanding, her only desire to choose where we went out to eat. She had friends, whom I saw at her funeral. I never met them before, and one in particular surprised me.

My mother requested that at the fellowship, I take pictures of those in attendance. It is very hard to get all those people together, espectially together while they are looking dapper. I felt very southern, having been to a southern funeral where they photograph at the funeral home, the casket, the body, etc. Very different from our version of, let's hold the tears in, let's not show emotion, and certainly do not take pictures. But we deviated. I stood poised for a photo of an older woman, white hair spikey on her head. She smiled for me and then said, you must be Amber. I said, yes and asked how she knew. She said that my grandmother talked about me all the time. I stood surprised, mouth open, and eyebrows raised. She gave a small smirk and said, you must not have known your grandmother very well.

I will be the first to admit, that I did not. I tried. She would not open up to me nor to anyone I knew. There were secrets in her that she was not willing to share and I do not know why. I don't know if it was just a generational thing, if she just didn't like talking about herself, or if she really thought those secrets would be damaging. The white haired woman with the spikes grinned bigger stating that my grandmother had told her that I was mischievous. I inquired as to why my grandmother would say that, the woman just smiled. I told my parents this information and my dad was quite confused and had no idea what his mother would have meant by that; my mom was baffled also. Perhaps, my grandmother didn't know me very well either. The road goes both ways.

I am not mischeivous nor have I ever been. My parents lucked out on getting me as a child, especially after having to deal with my brother's antics. I did well in school, did not have to be prompted to do my homework, I did not drink in high school, did not have sex until a few months ago, did not get into trouble, etc. My downfall as a child was that I was mouthy, which may have caused some headaches due to my high level decibels of yelling, were nothing compared to what my brother brought on.

So, I shall miss my grandma. She had this cackling laugh that drove me nuts. She told me to be a "Good Doobie," and I have no idea what that means, she had a house full of junk, and loved coffee with great passion. Her last words were "I would like a cup of coffee." Now, that's a fan starbucks needed in their corner. So, grandma, my next cup of coffee (I will have to add cream and sugar substitute, sorry) will be for you, for your honor. I will sip and think of you. I will stir my coffee and remember the short moments I had with you. When I pour the cream, it shall disburse in the liquid, forming an outline of your face and this is when I shall weep.

RIP Grandma Doris