(Photo: Grandma Florence with her two sons, George and Bob (Mark's dad)When we suddenly lost Grandma Florence (my husband's grandma) in 2002, it was a big hit to the family; she was the matriarch, but moreso, she was the heart of the family. She was a real character, born in one of the toughest parts of the country (Michigan's upper peninsula, which makes our winter this year look like a cake-walk).
I was happy that there was an open casket, as I would have a chance to say goodbye. She looked so beautiful in her crimson velvet dress, and it took me back to the only other day she wore it.
It was a winter Michigan wedding for her grandson, Derek and his fiancee, Laurie. Eighty-year-old Florence was in her glory that night, nearly outshining the bride in her regal attire, perfect for her status in the family. The reception was at a country club, and Gram felt pretty special. She was not a fancy woman at all; putting on airs was not her style, but she enjoyed playing dress-up that night. And although she had done "the worm" at Mark's brothers wedding 20 years prior, this time Gram stayed vertical.
I have to digress a little to say that Grandma Florence and I got off to a rocky start; I think she felt a little threatened by me in the beginning. We both had powerful personalities, and while I respected her, I did not bend over backwards to please her. (Remember, my grandparents were all gone by the time I was 12, so I really had no frame of reference for family heirarchy and the status a grandma often holds.) One sunny summer day, I stopped at Mark's parents' house when Gram was visiting from Michigan and found her sitting on the patio. Mark went to get us drinks, and she said to me, "You know, he's never going to marry you." Taken aback, I was speechless. She continued, "You are just one of the many girlfriends Mark has had. He's not ready to settle down, so you are likely wasting your time." As you can imagine, that offended me, and years later, when I got my engagement ring, you can bet I was more than happy to show it to her. (She didn't mention anything about her comment, and I didn't either.)
When Kyle was a baby, Gram and I had a couple of run-ins over old-school vs. new school childrearing, and sometimes we hurt each other's feelings, but we managed to settle in to a comfortable, mutual respect for one another over the years.
The night of the wedding, Mark's mom noticed Gram walking with baby-steps and thought it odd that a woman of her height (5'10") would be taking such small steps. Gram whispered that her pantyhose were falling down and that she was heading to the restroom! I told you Gram was not a fancy woman. These were possibly the first pair of pantyhose she had every worn; she had no clue that she should have put them on before, rather than after she put her girdle on. Her fancy dress could not help the fact that her poker-straight frame would not hold her pantyhose up.
I ran into Gram in the Ladies room, cursing her "damned hose!" She ask if I would help her pull her hose up. [Awkward.] Regardless, imagine me, on my knees in front of Florence with her fancy dress hiked up to her waist as I tugged and tugged her pantyhose up from her ankles all the way up to her ribs (and remember, I said she was tall, so that was pretty far!) This was no easy feat, but Gram and I laughed our way through it. Each of us laughed until we cried and had to catch our breath. (Imagine the looks on the faces of ladies coming in to use the restroom and hearing us in there!) Finally settled, Gram and I powdered our noses and headed back to the party, her dignity intact, along with her pantyhose. It was a bonding time for Gram and me, and we laughed about it again in later years.
Seeing Gram in the casket wearing her beautiful dress, I was only a little sad. I smiled as I patted her hand before saying good-bye...
...because I know there are no pantyhose in heaven.
