I have been fortunate to have known and called my own not one, but two quintessential grandmothers. The second came into my life just as the first departed. I imagine their lives as young mothers were quite different— for starters one was a devout Lutheran and the second a conservative Jew. One was the youngest of 5 girls and went on to college. The other was the oldest of 4 children and needed to give up both finishing high school as well as going to college to earn money for her family. Yet their commonalities in loving their grandchildren far exceeded their differences in upbringing and religion. Perhaps it is no coincidence that they shared the name Frances.
My second grandmother Frances was not a biologic grandmother; she was my husband’s grandmother. Yet she treated me as she did all of her granddaughter-in-laws—as fully and completely as every one of her grandchildren. And the fact that I did not share her religious faith was never an issue with her—what mattered to her was getting to know who I was as an individual and hearing all of the details of my life. Her interest in my life was focused—she always looked right into my eyes as we spoke in person and while she was interested in her grandson and great-grandchildren (my husband and children), when talking with me she would always first focus her interest on how I was spending my time. Her hazel eyes would peer directly into mine and seem to read my soul, discerning any bumps in its fabric.
The first time I met her was shortly after my husband and I began dating. As the family matriarch, she hosted weekly Sunday brunches. The rounded table could always fit one more family member—I’d use the broader term guest, but these events were strictly for family and I was considered family from the first time my husband-to-be introduced me to his grandmother. That first brunch I was seated in the middle of the table, surrounded by many family members I had yet to get to know. I ate a bite or two of Montreal bagel dressed with ‘pull-cheese’ and homemade strawberry jam, passed on the gefilte fish (I was still a neophyte at dating a Jew) and managed to snag a couple of sliced tomatoes. I also recall a plate of slice cucumbers which I presumed to be another Jewish delicacy. Turned out that wasn’t the case at all—simply a case of the youngest cousin having a limited gastronomic repertoire.
While I was a little nervous at being the newest member and only person at the table unfamiliar with gefilte fish, my minimal intake was more influenced by where I sat than by a nervous stomach. Surrounded by more than a dozen hungry family members— cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, sister and the radiantly smiling grandmother, I barely had time for a bite between requests to pass the pull cheese to the right or tuna to the left or cucumbers back to the right. Frances gently pointed out to me that she recommended that I avoid the middle seat on future Sundays if I was at all interested in eating.
When her first and second great grandchild came along she was simply beside herself with excitement. Holding her great grandchild for the first time (and every time for that matter), she focused deeply, looking into the baby’s eyes, her own eyes twinkling merrily, “What can I say? She is absolutely delicious.” This was the first time I had heard my child called delicious—this seems to be somewhat of a Jewish habit, or at least a Canadian Jewish habit. While hearing a gastronomic term applied to your child might seem disconcerting from anyone else, from Frances it was the most heartfelt term of endearment which brought tears to my eyes every time she used this turn of phrase—which she did on every occasion she saw one of my girls or even a photo of them. A woman of moderate means she always had a gift for the children whenever she saw them. Frequently the gifts were play parasols. By the time my girls were 5 they had a dozen parasols between them that were favorite playthings.
Frances was a friend to everyone. I loved her stories of her mechanic who made house calls, her shop customers who took her out to lunch and in later years Lincoln, her handyman, who would sit down and share an afternoon break with her. And these were only a few of the countless individuals whom Frances made feel special with her focused attention. Frances left a lasting love here for all of us to share in the friendship and fellowship she shared with each of us individually. I am lucky to have been a granddaughter to a second Grandma Frances for the past 20 years; I will miss her.
My second grandmother Frances was not a biologic grandmother; she was my husband’s grandmother. Yet she treated me as she did all of her granddaughter-in-laws—as fully and completely as every one of her grandchildren. And the fact that I did not share her religious faith was never an issue with her—what mattered to her was getting to know who I was as an individual and hearing all of the details of my life. Her interest in my life was focused—she always looked right into my eyes as we spoke in person and while she was interested in her grandson and great-grandchildren (my husband and children), when talking with me she would always first focus her interest on how I was spending my time. Her hazel eyes would peer directly into mine and seem to read my soul, discerning any bumps in its fabric.
The first time I met her was shortly after my husband and I began dating. As the family matriarch, she hosted weekly Sunday brunches. The rounded table could always fit one more family member—I’d use the broader term guest, but these events were strictly for family and I was considered family from the first time my husband-to-be introduced me to his grandmother. That first brunch I was seated in the middle of the table, surrounded by many family members I had yet to get to know. I ate a bite or two of Montreal bagel dressed with ‘pull-cheese’ and homemade strawberry jam, passed on the gefilte fish (I was still a neophyte at dating a Jew) and managed to snag a couple of sliced tomatoes. I also recall a plate of slice cucumbers which I presumed to be another Jewish delicacy. Turned out that wasn’t the case at all—simply a case of the youngest cousin having a limited gastronomic repertoire.
While I was a little nervous at being the newest member and only person at the table unfamiliar with gefilte fish, my minimal intake was more influenced by where I sat than by a nervous stomach. Surrounded by more than a dozen hungry family members— cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, sister and the radiantly smiling grandmother, I barely had time for a bite between requests to pass the pull cheese to the right or tuna to the left or cucumbers back to the right. Frances gently pointed out to me that she recommended that I avoid the middle seat on future Sundays if I was at all interested in eating.
When her first and second great grandchild came along she was simply beside herself with excitement. Holding her great grandchild for the first time (and every time for that matter), she focused deeply, looking into the baby’s eyes, her own eyes twinkling merrily, “What can I say? She is absolutely delicious.” This was the first time I had heard my child called delicious—this seems to be somewhat of a Jewish habit, or at least a Canadian Jewish habit. While hearing a gastronomic term applied to your child might seem disconcerting from anyone else, from Frances it was the most heartfelt term of endearment which brought tears to my eyes every time she used this turn of phrase—which she did on every occasion she saw one of my girls or even a photo of them. A woman of moderate means she always had a gift for the children whenever she saw them. Frequently the gifts were play parasols. By the time my girls were 5 they had a dozen parasols between them that were favorite playthings.
Frances was a friend to everyone. I loved her stories of her mechanic who made house calls, her shop customers who took her out to lunch and in later years Lincoln, her handyman, who would sit down and share an afternoon break with her. And these were only a few of the countless individuals whom Frances made feel special with her focused attention. Frances left a lasting love here for all of us to share in the friendship and fellowship she shared with each of us individually. I am lucky to have been a granddaughter to a second Grandma Frances for the past 20 years; I will miss her.
