A Beautiful Life Remembered

I don't have too many vivid visual memories, but I remember a few things.  The brown house with that shaggy carpet, orange - or was it green? at the house on Creal Crescent, right by the park, where I used to go and work puzzles and raid the candy jar.  Butterscotch was my favorite and I avoided the spicy cinnamon ones that set my mouth on fire.  I vaguely remember the house in Geddes Lake with the big geese and the pond.  And more recently, the apartment at Chelsea Retirement Community, where I sent you letters when I was in Mali, and where I'd go once a month for second Sunday brunch with family, upon my return.  I remember that blue lightweight jacket with the alligator on it, and the beautiful umbrella from Ethiopia that sits in the corner in memory of Grandpa.  The gray shoes.  The dark blue elastic waist pants.  I can picture you in your light blue Lazyboy chair, listening to us talk about anything and everything.  Sometimes I thought our banter was too fast for you, but then you'd chime in, and I'd know how sharp you were.  Sometimes, when you was tired, you'd sit with your eyes gently closed, and I'd try to imagine what it was like being you, in a 90 year old body.  Certainly though, what I remember most about you grandma, was the feeling I got when you were in the room.  You had a gracefully strong and beautifully kind presence.  It was as if raising five kids gave you infinite patience, and the generation gap between us meant you'd seen it all.  I remember those days on Creal Crescent, trying to be on my absolute best behavior - I didn't want you and grandpa to think I had a bad bone in my body. Yet, somehow, I knew you knew.  I looked at you in wonder, in amazement at what you must have seen and experienced in your life. An infinite treasure chest of wisdom, patience, compassion and kindness.

The last time I saw you was at the May brunch, and I'd left, only to remember I had a disposable camera with one picture left on it, and I wanted it to be of the two of us.  I ran back up the stairs to apartment 351 to take our picture together.  I remember trying to decide where to stand for the photo, and we decided to take it in your bedroom in front of the closet.  Dad said that you died peacefully, in your sleep.  That you were tired, and ready to go.  It's so hard to imagine what that's like.  It has to end sometime, and even though I wish you could have stayed for another 90 years, I'm glad for you that you finally got what you needed.

I already miss you, so much - the way you look at me with your gentle all-knowing yet compassionate smile.  I miss those Sunday brunches, the only thing that consistently slowed me down in my fast lane student life.  I'll miss the boys always trying to outdo one another to show you they love you the most, and the way you roll your eyes at them and laugh at their silliness. I'll miss them hiding from you as they write on the prayer board, even though we all knew you knew our shenanigans.  I miss knowing that you're reading my blog, and I know I'll miss the excitement of opening birthday and Christmas books or trinkets that you'd held onto over the years. You spoiled us like grandmas should, always giving the best, most thoughtful presents. I'll miss your famous chocolate chip cookies, and receiving articles on Africa from you.  Even though I wasn't around much until recently, you always knew what I was up to.  Mostly though, I'll miss feeling your strong, wise, patient presence.  I'll miss how your presence somehow brings about a feeling in the room that isn't there when you're not. I can't imagine what it will be like without you. Who will the boys try to impress with their flowers and candies?
You were the glue of our family, the matriarch, and you've always had a way of bringing us together.  Because of you and grandpa, we have stayed united as an extended family for so long.  I feel so lucky for this and I hope that, in your honor, this beautiful tradition continues. I'm forever grateful to you for the way you raised my father.  He's an excellent man and the best father a person could ask for, and I attribute that to your love and kindness in raising him.   I'm so glad we got this last year to spend time with each other.  I will remember you for all these things and so much more.  I'm sorry that I can't be at your memorial service, and it breaks my heart that I can't be there to support my dad.  I'm comforted because I know you know how much I love and admire you.  Rest in peace, grandma, and know that you are loved by all who knew you and will be missed dearly.

Jeanne Bailey Ransom passed away peacefully in her sleep on the morning of Monday, June 27, just before sunrise.  She would have been 91 years old on July 4th.