Hvil i fred, Mormor
mourning my grandma with absolutely no shrieking
Today, my family is burying my grandma, and I am 4,500 km away.
Many of you know of my Grandma June, even if you haven’t experienced her firsthand. She weasels her way into all of my stories (she’s too much of a character to ever omit), and has been a constant source of material, delight, support, and love as tough as beef jerky throughout my life.
For the last week, I’ve been trying to capture my memories of her, to catalogue all of her before I can’t remember the sound of her voice, or the colour of the cabinets in her kitchen.
I am six, picking peas off of the trellis that grows beside her pool. We are allowed to play there as long as we are supervised. Grandma insists she’s not running a babysitting service. If we are too much or squeal too loudly, she bellows, ‘NO SHRIEKING’ and we are briefly hushed. She doesn’t care much for the pitch of our voices, she tells us she prefers the boys. That summer, my class goes on a trip to her nursery and we repot marigolds. I get to stay in the greenhouses watering the seedlings and picking peas when everyone else climbs back on the bus.
I am twelve, and she is taking me to basketball practice. I am dripping in desperation trying to make friends with a girl on my team. Grandma has words with my coach in front of everyone. They argue about a community hall issue and the other girls exchange glances and roll their eyes. After practice, I beg her not to do this, to not embarrass me, to just be nice to people for once. She tells me she has a reputation to uphold as a mean old bat.
I am thirteen, and Mom and Grandma have come to collect me from horse camp in Aldergrove. We stop in Tatla Lake on the long drive home and she tells me she has a surprise. We look out over a field and she tells me she’s bought that pretty little gelding for us to share. I spend the next three years with Grandma and Stormy, taking lessons after school and riding him through the trails with the other girls. In the fall — or early spring, I already can’t remember — we go on a trail ride together up into the mountains. We hear cougar screams in the night and our tents fill with rainwater. Grandma tells me this will toughen me up, because I am too soft. But I don’t feel soft when I am riding alongside her. I feel like a real cowgirl. Like her.
I am almost fourteen when a fight with my auntie means I’m staying with my grandparents. Grandma picks me up, tells me that my aunt will come around eventually. She can’t be mad at you forever, she says. You didn’t see her face, I reply. I spend the next week with Grandma and Grandpa. On the day I bring home my new volleyball jersey from school, she is in the kitchen with her friend, N. There is a steady drip, drip, drip of milk off the table. I go from room to room before I ask where Grandpa is. I don’t remember much after she tells me he died, but I remember that she did what needed to be done. In the years that follow, she travels and lives loudly.
I am twenty-one and I am home for rodeo. I’m drinking in the beer gardens and Grandma is the bouncer. My brother has had his eyebrows and beard painted with mascara and neither of us recognize him. He uses the opportunity to scare her then take her for a spin on the dance floor. The night is full of silliness and dancing and a few bad decisions. I milk the story about how my grandma is a bouncer incessantly for years to come.
There is the time at Christmas that she approaches my cousin S. for what looks like a hug, but instead she grabs her stomach and comments on her weight, and I have to hold my cousin’s hand later and tell her not to worry, she does this to all of us. There is the time spent mushroom picking up the mountain behind her house and hours spent sorting them with her in the greenhouse. There are the jokes about her affinity for cacti being so fitting because she’s so prickly. There are the hugs that she didn’t expect or care for but grew to accept. There is all of the unsolicited advice, big laughs with inward snorts, the tack room, her beloved chainsaw, her beloved ATV, the cowboy boots, the feuds, the wild shit on Facebook my brother and I screenshot and send back and forth to each other. There is so much and I fear it’s already slipping.
Today, my family is burying a fixture in our family and our community, and I am 4,500 km away. Today, I’m proud to be called Patricia June, to carry her name in mine. I hope it gives me half her strength and fearlessness.
Hvil i fred, Mormor. I’ll be raising a glass to you, from too far away.
Thank you for indulging me in this moment. I promise, dear reader, things will be more cheery around here from now on.