My Grandma Kirby

I told you I could fill twenty blogs with my extended family.  I'll start with my Grandma.

Agnes Kirby will be 93 on October 19th.  She is still living in her house in Sag Harbor, NY, where she lived with her husband of 63 years.  Grandpa passed away after a fall resulting in a broken hip in October of 2003.  His death was a blow, because I never thought he or Grandma would ever die.  He was 91, and was active in his community and church until very close to the end.  He had only stopped driving a year or so before his death.

Grandma and Grandpa were devout Catholics.  Although I had long ago walked away from the Mother Church, I admired their undying faith, and their service to others.  They were driving folks to doctor's appointments who were half their age!  Grandpa was funny,  a hugger, and always eager and willing to play with us kids.  He had 7 children, and nearly 20 grandchildren.  He would wrestle with us in the grass, play Motorboat at the beach,  make the lamp light up when one of us blew on a playing card!  He was tall, well over 6 feet, and was always bigger than life to us.  I adored him, and miss him terribly.  He always made me feel special.

Grandma, on the other hand, was different.  She was the strict one. Everyone was at the breakfast table at 8 am. Nothing was ever messy, dishes were promptly washed, dried, and put away, along with the placemats and cloth napkins.  Unlike at the home of Grandma McFeeley, we did not partake of delicious food.   Agnes was strictly potatoes and chicken. She kept Grandpa and herself on a low salt, low fat diet.  She was famous for her sandwiches: one piece of meat, on bread on which a thin layer of margarine was spread.  There were cookies, Chips Ahoy and Deluxe Grahams that were rationed out.  When we brought lunch to the beach, we had to wait 30 minutes after eating before going in the water.  She also had a habit of letting me know I really shouldn't have sweets, and one time, when I was a teenager, gave me an Air Force calisthenics instruction book. At times I would hide in the pink room (the guest room I usually shared with my mom), and shed tears over the actions and words of my grandmother.  I did not have the warm feelings towards Grandma that I did towards Grandpa.  I felt she and I were miles apart, had nothing in common.  She hardly ate, and was thin, I loved to eat and struggled with my weight. She had the perfect marriage.  I failed at mine.  She was a mother of seven.  I was only able to be married long even to have one child.  Her house was always so neat and clean, mine was a disaster.  She was religious, and said grace before every meal.  I was frequently angry at God, and alienated from the Church.  We were worlds apart.

Grandma and Grandpa were so devoted to each other.  We always felt a little sorry for Grandpa; Agnes was so much in charge of everything.  If she heard Grandpa utter a dreadful word (" damnation!"), she'd look at him disapproving, and reprimand him with her trademark; "Oh, Bill!"  She made sure they had healthy diet, and always went for their 2 mile walk along Long Beach (aka "Grandma's Beach") .  One of my last visits before Grandpa's death, we were having breakfast (8am), and Grandpa asked me to pass the butter.  I did so: the regular butter, not the little tub of margarine.  When Grandma saw him struggle to spread the cold, hard butter on his toast, she exclaimed: "Oh, Bill, you're not using  your butter! (translation: the light margarine).  I tried to lighten things up by saying, "Hey, Grandma, let him live it up, just this once!"  To which Grandpa gleefully replied: "Listen to her! She's on my side!"  We all got a good laugh, one of many around that table.  Even Grandma smiled, and enjoyed a light hearted moment.

These habits of hers bothered me for a long time.  Then, after Grandpa died, I felt bad that I hadn't been out to see them more.  I tried to get out to see Grandma on a regular basis, more than the usual once a year.  We were amazed with her first year without her beloved Bill; she actually did well.  We figured they were together so long, she would not be able to function alone.  But, after that first year, she got weaker, and the family had to hire live in help.  At first, it was mostly cooking, cleaning, assisting with errands, occasional assistance with a shower.  Grandma was still in control, insisting on doing most everything on her own.  I would visit, and at first be put off by her stubbornness: not just letting me make dinner, but insisting on looking under every pot lid.  Then, I just let it go, and tried a different approach: enjoy her company! We would look at old photos, and let her tell the story behind them.  I discovered a different side to my grandmother.  She wasn't an old woman, she was a mother, like me.  She told me about the time she was alone raising her oldest (my mom) while Grandpa was in the service during World War II.  She, like me, was a single mom at one time!  Then she said, after a pass home , she was pregnant, by herself.  But, Grandpa made it home when my Aunt Anne was born.  I was touched when I actually heard her emotions in telling her story. I also learned about my great grandmother who travelled for the first time, ever,  to Hawaii in her 50s!     Wow!  I was descended from some independent women!  

 I also discovered a secret.  We were having the Chips Ahoy after lunch one day, when, to my utter shock and surprise, Grandma had 4 or 5 cookies!  I said; "Grandma!  I thought Grandpa was the Chips Ahoy fan!"  She smiled sheepishly, and said: "You weren't watching me closely enough!"  Grandma, like me, liked sweets! Later on, during that visit, I was drying the dishes, cleaning the countertops, and she said to me: "I like having you here.  You know my routine!"  That was an honor to hear.

Grandma's health declined, especially after a bad fall 2 years ago.  About every 6 months or so, she has a setback, but pulls through.  She is on Hospice care, but has been this past year.  She is bedbound, speaks very little, and doesn't get out anymore.  After a setback or two,  usually at the urging of one of my aunts, I've gone out to see her, thinking "This is the last time."   I go in, expecting to find her at death's door, mute, and unresponsive.  Instead, I see a slight white haired woman, who lights up at the sight of me and my children, who, says: "Hello there!"   That is usually the most conversation she's capable of, but I savor it.  We all joke around that she'll live forever, but we all know she will be forever gone soon. 

 

I'm grateful my last few visits have had those moments of her face lighting up in recognizing her oldest grandchild.  I also find a peace and a calm, as I  clean that kitchen, and fold up those cloth red and white plaid napkins that have graced that table for 20 years.  I understood why she was so anal in everything she did.  These things were important to her.   She would look around her kitchen before retiring for the night, and know she had accomplished everything she needed to in caring for her home and her family.  I find myself not leaving the dishes to soak overnight, but to be able to walk into my tiny, clean  kitchen every morning, knowing it's a new day, and there are no leftover regrets waiting for me in the sink.  I am doing a good job caring for my family, just as my Grandma knew that she was doing the same.