Grammy Hill

On Friday I was talking to my mom about our plans to come down to Boston and her and dad were going to take the boys to the circus. She had to finish up a project and asked me to call her back in five minutes. I called back in 15 and got her voice mail. I had three messages from Matt in that 15 minutes. I called him back and he told me that mom was on her way down to Gram's and that Gram had died. Here are some thoughts regarding my grandmother.
First, I'm so happy that she died in her sleep, at her home of 60+ years in her own bed. In no prescribed order: A lifelong card carrying member of the international tea totaler society, her cure for the flu or a cold was peach brandy, honey, lemon and served piping hot. After a dose you were to go up in the room with the twin beds and sleep under a pile of afghans and blankets. Watermelon was a constant on the back porch in the summer time. The pool was always open. I cut her lawn and at the time I cut it it seemed so large. I think she grossly overpaid me. The freezer was full of trays of manacotti. There were pomegranates and nuts on the table in the winter. Sleep was mandatory on Sunday afternoons. It was necessary due to the five course Sunday dinners. The pool was off limits on Sunday due to a little known Levitical law carried over and nestled somewhere ( and I'm still looking) in the new testament. Other laws forbade radio listening (except in the car, and WJIB at the store), TV watching anywhere, missing a church service for anything over than bird flu or ebola, the exchange of Christmas gifts, and the wearing of comfortable clothes on Sundays. There were a number of things making up for most of these prohibitions. We were always treated to individual shopping sprees (curiously around the "holiday" season) to Filenes in Boston, dinners at the Ship, dessert at Putnam Pantry, lessons in how to act in polite company, a swimming pool for our usage primarily, the joke about the man who get's in to his pants both legs at the same time (I don't know that there was ever a punchline, she never got to it) meals for all that were legendary, pastena on rainy afternoons, a commitment to singing and acting like preachers, an international exposure to the "brethren" of many lands including Mr. Stabbit, an early baptism in the works of E.E. Milne (Winnie the pooh), lessons on pruning all sorts of shrubbery, on grass cutting, edging , planting, painting, building a fire in the fireplace, and a car to drive whenever we needed one for a roadtrip (as long as it was to a conference). We lived close enough to walk over during blizzards and having popcorn and hot chocolate by the fire. After her stroke Matt and I would visit her in our suits coming back from meetings and she would light up like a Christmas tree (she was probably picturing us as preachers) and we would struggle with communication but never to the point of utter frustration. If she couldn't get her point across she would finally laugh, shrug and look at us like "whattayagonnado??". Her oil paintings after her stroke are incredible. I'll try to post one or two.