My grandmother died the day before Christmas Eve.
Quietly. At home. In her sleep.
At the hell-yeah age of 106.
The grief I’m holding is the most straightforward I’ve ever experienced.
Simple almost.
A part of me had quietly been preparing to lose her for a while now.
Her being gone landed on my heart with a gentle, sorrowful arrival.
Of course, it was coming.
But damn it that doesn’t make it any less hard.
Despite the knowing that it might be soon, year in and year out, I was always so pleased to discover that she was still here.
Still vibrant, still kind, still living in her home surrounded by her art and eclectic belongings collected throughout a long, full, and adventurous life.
Her house was a living, breathing gallery. The walls were covered in canvases of her own art. Above her kitchen sink, she’d hung a stained glass window that she purchased from a bizarre in Turkey. Her collection of hand-sculpted ceramic mushrooms spread from one end of the mantle to the other, a few popping up on the bookshelf nearby.
Everywhere you looked, were stories and memories.
Everywhere you looked, her distinct taste and pleasure decorated every corner and forgotten nook.
Everywhere you looked, there were gifts from friends and photos of people she loved.
She also wasn’t technically my grandmother.
She was my adoptive mom’s ex-husband’s ex-step-mom.
But she only lived about eight doors down from the house I grew up in, and was the most involved grandparent I had had.
She was relentlessly proud. Relentlessly encouraging. Relentlessly celebratory of literally anything I did.
Despite being blind as a bat those last many years, every time I saw her she would compliment me on my hair and outfit! (I’m laughing and crying as I type this one.)
She gave me flowers after the plays I performed in. She attended my graduation party. She sent me cards on birthdays and holidays. And when she could still hear over the phone, I called her sometimes just to hear her smile and tell her I was thinking about her.
She was the kind of woman who flew to New York to go shopping and looked incredible in the color red. She loved the attention of little dogs. She threw parties and had several tight-knit communities of friends she celebrated with. And when she came over to watch the Mariner’s games, she threw peanut shells on the floor for Sadie and scolded the ump with the rest of us.
She never ‘said’ no to chocolate. Her son sent her boxes of See’s chocolate so her dining room table always had an assortment of cookies and sweets waiting to be shared with guests.
In my twenties, I would come home and the three of us - my mom, Peggy, and I - would go out to dinner at one of her favorite restaurants where the whole staff knew her by name and we would always toast “To chosen family!”.
That is what held us together. Choice. Not blood. Not legal ties. Not even proximity.
I wish I’d had less tunnel vision and been more curious when I was younger, when she still had serviceable hearing and some of her vision left.
I wish I’d asked more questions about her childhood and her motivations.
I wish I’d asked her if she had any regrets or things she would have done differently knowing what she knew now.
I wish I’d asked her about political movements, being a housewife, then a radio station manager, and then a full-time artist.
I wish I’d asked why she loved Italy so much.
I wish I’d asked her more about her sons and her late husband, who she still thought of as the love of her life.
I wish I’d asked why she chose me as her own when nothing said she had to.
I wish I’d gone to visit her earlier in December when I intended to, but I didn’t for reasons that seemed so reasonable at the time but now are utter rubbish.
She had this institutional quality about her, like she might just stick around forever.
I wish I’d simply stopped by to say ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’.
She was a memorable woman. She wasn’t perfect. The woman could hold a grudge! But she was real, and distinct, and unlike so many women of her time, she did not hold back. She found a way to be opinionated, strong, and successful. She dared to be disliked. She was upfront about her boundaries and at the same time, she was the type of person who was indiscriminately generous with her joy and delight.
In a world full of so many opportunities to be frustrated, afraid, and worried…
Be a Peggy.
Let yourself like what you like, and say ‘no’ to what you don’t.
Give your kindness away freely and often.
Throw way more parties.
This week, would you take the time to say ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ to that person in your life who you know knows, and who think you’ve got plenty of time with?
Will you do that for me?
In loving memory of Peggy O’Brien Fogliano
(1916-2022)
Thank you for being here to share my stories.
Until (probably) next week - Theora
A lovely portrait of an amazing woman, and an insight into a life I did have the good fortune to share.