End of an Era

Carol Livingston Bowen Barnhouse, my grandmother, passed away the day before yesterday.  She was 98 years old, survived by her four daughters (her son, my father, died almost twenty years ago), nine grandchildren, and 13 great grandchildren.

This was a woman you didn’t screw with.  She did the Times crossword puzzle for breakfast and could carry on a conversation with three different people while she beat you at Scrabble during cocktail hour.  Once she found some cash my grandfather had been secretly squirreling away in his sock drawer.  She didn’t get mad or feel betrayed.  She left him with my aunt and went to China with her friends.

When we visited Grandma Barnhouse before moving to Ithaca she was quiet and didn’t say a word the whole time except at the very end.  She was low on energy and barely talked to anyone anymore.

“You sure do have small breasts for being such a large woman.”

I feared that may have been our last exchange and would joke around about it afterwards.  First Born Prince must have overheard me tell that story a dozen times.

But we did get to see Grandma Barnhouse again last Christmas.  She seemed a little more lively than usual.  I suspect it was because I brought the Professor.  She kept peering over at him.  She was either wondering who the hell the giant Jew was or wanted to impress him.

“I love you, too, Lisa,” Grandma said as we were leaving.  That did it.  The tears streamed down my face.  As I started walking quickly down the corridor away from her room, First Born Prince came up beside me, took my hand and squeezed it.

“Well, at least now the last words she said to you aren’t about your breasts!”