A Black Whimsy and BIG Love… My Last Love Note to Grandma & Grandpa Hodel
Grandma passed on November 13, 2019 and it’s taken me a long minute to be able to write this. I started a list of some random anecdotes, and then would ugly snot-cry until I had to stop and fix my face (and my keyboard.) I’ve never mastered the art of graceful tears, as mine come in heavy crocodile streams and my chest shakes with emotion. I’ve always been pretty sensitive about all things home, and while I’m so thankful for the path I’ve taken and the choices I made many years ago, I’ll always have a soft spot for my farm upbringing in Illinois, and the many people that have built me.
My grandmother has been my soft place to land through most of my adult years…
Of course, she was the grandma who planned all things fun and shiny when we were kids, as she coordinated the Hodel family band, Honky Tonk’s Pizza, girls shopping trips, and excursions at the Ike lake. But the really good stuff for me started when I was 21 and moved away from home. I couldn’t attend the usual family events—the Friday family nights, the weddings, baby showers, and holiday shenanigans, but my trade-off came in the form of long phone calls and connection that may have never happened in person.
She wasn’t all laughter and warm-fuzzies though, let’s be clear–she was sassy and pretty transparent—she’d tell me if I’d gained weight, if my skin was looking rough, or if I’d gone too blonde in my latest salon session. She shamed me in front of Nicholas the time I’d brought Hardees for breakfast and tossed the hash-brown coins; she dug them out of the trash, told me I was “a wasteful child” and that Grandpa would love those in the morning for breakfast. She kept me honest, was a voice of reason, but was also ahead of her time in the way that she accepted my alternative choices, and made sure that I knew that she loved and accepted Nicholas as “another grandson” long before she even knew him very well.
Nicholas and I used to spend an evening or a Sunday morning with her and Grandpa every time we came home, and game nights are still one of my favorite memories. We’d play Rummikub, cards, or dominoes, and she’d never even pretend to soften and let anyone else win; heaven forbid she lost, she’d say, “Oh Shucks!” bring out more molasses or Swiss Biberly cookies, and demand another game.
She made Swiss Biberlys every year in time for Christmas—a divine honey-pecan cookie that is made with more love and time that you can imagine. It was an old recipe from a McCall’s Magazine, and her and my great Aunt Edna made them every year like clockwork. After I’d moved away and wasn’t in attendance for the holidays, she’d make sure there was a stash in the freezer for our game nights when I was back home. My sister and I made them with her one year, and she’d done all the time-consuming part of the dough well before we came over, and it still took an entire day to roll the dough, fill them, and bake them off; they were seriously a bite of heaven and hard work, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’ve always joked that I was born in the wrong decade; I love the old-fashioned peacock feather hats, lace whimseys, old brooches, and antique candy dishes. Our modern townhouse is more of an antique show room, as I’m surround by her things: handmade aprons inside my pantry door, gingham kitchen towels hang from the oven handle, and I carry her floral hankies in my purse. I’ll remember her constantly in the everyday treasures I use: the vanity set with the M inscription (for Mildred), the tattered coin purse filled with crayons, the old books that line the china cabinet, and the mint green scarf with moth holes, but still smells like her.
It’s difficult for me to express the loss I feel (and I’m never at a loss for words); but it’s because she was so much for me, and for so long. I think about how few people my age still have a grandmother, I know it’s super rare, and even though she was 97, I still feel like she had plenty of life to live. I know I’m lucky and blessed to have had her for so long, but it doesn’t soften her absence, or my selfish sense of massive loss.
After being married for several years, and answering the constant question about kids, I finally came clean to Grandma in one of our visits—we were sitting in the living room at her duplex in Eureka, eating hard candy from an antique candy jar. “We don’t want kids, Grandma—we’ve thought about it, and I know it’s unconventional, but I just wanted you to know.”
Deep silence, a soft gasp… “Well, what will people say?! You know they’ll think you’re infertile.” The moment was hysterically funny and oddly sad at the same time—while she would later try to change my mind and insist that it’s an experience every woman should have, in that moment, she was worried about perception as if I’d invited over the Elders of the church and failed to clean my windows and globes.
That was just like her, though; she added a bit of levity to moments that were so unexpected, and yet so honest at the same time. She’d listen to anything I wanted to tell her and would literally answer anything I wanted to know.
“Grandma, how do chickens have sex? What’s the difference between the chickens that lay eggs and the ones we butcher for protein? Will the chicken feet compost into the ground when we bury them? Why didn’t you like Grandpa when Uncle Walt brought him home for dinner? What was my mom like in high school? What would you do differently if you could?”
I had endless questions, and over my adult years, our phone conversations were some of my very favorite moments. Sometimes I’d run a proper interview with prepared questions; sometimes we’d just chat about the current day-to-day, and sometimes she’d ask me questions about why I moved away, why I didn’t join the church, and if I was really sure I didn’t want kids. She was easy to talk to—as easy as breathing—and in a world that has seems more and more superficial, I appreciated our relationship because it felt more real than almost any other.
So this Thanksgiving, while my heart still feels a little volatile and I know I’m not done mourning the loss of my last grandparent and a notable person in my own development, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for the way she loved me, the way she shaped me without even trying, and the way she has taught me to talk about family stories and open up with my mom, my aunts, my cousins. It would be easy to be far away (West Coast now) and not make the time and effort to really connect with family through the miles, so my favorite thing from her, is to take the time…send the email or text, make the call, and appreciate the time we have to connect on a real level with those who share our genes, our memories, and the greatest possible love. XOXO