Memere

My husband's grandmother recently died. He had the honor of eulogizing her at the funeral Mass, a task he did not take lightly. In the days leading up to the funeral, he agonized over what to say; how does one begin to encapsulate the remarkable life of a woman who lived nearly 98 years? Ultimately he gave a brief summary of her life, the highs and lows, and ended with one of the stories she frequently told that he had transcribed before she started losing some of her memory. I'm glad to say that he made it through without crying - much to his own relief!

Since her passing I have thought a lot about what I would like to say about her. I only had the pleasure and privilege of knowing her for 11 or so years; a small fraction of her life, but a good chunk of mine. There is so much that I could say about her, and so much that could be said by others, but I'd like to focus on the two traits I found most admirable about her - her tenderness and her generous spirit - which so often went hand-in-hand. I'd also like to, for posterity's sake, summarize some of the highlights of her life.

Memere was a giver, in every sense. She loved fiercely. She was a firecracker from the time she was a curly-haired moppet of a thing to the very end of her days. She was cheerful as anything, always making the folks around her smile. She met people where they were at, always withholding judgment or comment, even when I knew it must have broken her heart. She sacrificed so much but was adamant that she never regretted the things she had to give up to gain the things she had. 

Born in 1923 she grew up in a world that could never be replicated, no matter how hard authors or Hollywood tries. Her father, a "club man" as she always labeled him, was an artist; a musician, to be precise. He was talented, but impulsive and undisciplined. Their family moved often, all within the same Central Massachusetts towns and cities, but rarely stayed in one place long enough for it to ever feel to Memere like the place she could say she grew up in. Her mother was a loving, patient woman. Memere and her siblings were as tight-knit as could be.

Tragedy befell their family more often than seems fair. As a child, Memere watched two of her siblings die. One of them, a brother she was especially close to, had fallen ill and had been taken away to an unknown place to be quarantined. Even after he died the family was not allowed to see his body for fear of spreading the disease; they never found out where the poor boy was buried. Her sister died at around the age of eight and was buried in her First Communion dress. Through it all Memere helped keep the family together, becoming her mother's right-hand-man when it came to caring for the other children, getting groceries, or making sure their father didn't drink away all of the family's grocery money.

Shortly after she turned 18, Memere enrolled in nursing school, attending classes at the same hospital she would someday give birth in, the same hospital where each of my own children were born. She excelled; a natural talent paired with an unmated work ethic made her an ideal candidate for nursing work. Often she would pick up the slack from her classmates, chiding them for their inability to stomach inoculating patients. 

Her mother had been the one to encourage this career path, going so far as to use their savings to buy Memere the necessary uniform and supplies. Unfortunately Memere never completed school - her mother died in childbirth. Someone had come to fetch her, to tell her what was happening. Memere had rushed to her mother's side, but the woman was so strung out on the drugs they used to give laboring women that she wasn't able to form a coherent sentence. (Years later, when Memere was about to give birth to her third or fourth child, one of the doctor's tried to put a mask over her face to knock her out. She promptly ripped it off and threw it across the room.) 

Memere's mother was buried along with the infant child. People came to the wake and freely admitted they had come to see the mother and baby together in the casket. Soon after Memere's father began making arrangements for the children to be separated. Memere's older brother was away at war, and the next oldest child was still in high school. It was no question: Memere dropped out of nursing school and stayed home so that her siblings could stay together. 

She worked in a munitions factory to support the family. That building would someday be transformed into an apartment complex, one that Memere would move into many years later. She also fell in love with a skinny fellow with arms too long to fit most jackets. They met at the local swimming hole; he had been taking his sweet time at the edge of the diving board and Memere had heckled him to either jump or climb down. Later he tried to ask her out. Consumed with working and caring for her young siblings, Memere turned him down. But she agreed to write to him while he was deployed. They corresponded for years until he returned from the Pacific Theater after the end of the war.

Their wedding day was, in Memere's words, the worst day of her life. Her father was drunk, her friends divided between her wedding and another one in a different town, and her youngest brother couldn't stop crying because he didn't want his sister, the only mother he knew, to leave.

"Leah," her new husband had said. "We're going to go on our honeymoon, and we're going to have a good time." They did, fortunately, and upon returning set to work building their first home.

Twin girls came a year later. During her pregnancy Memere didn't know about the bonus child she was carrying. She would remark to her husband that the baby must be awfully long because it felt like the child was completely stretched out in her womb. After the surprise arrival of the twins, Memere said to her husband, "Pike, are two girls better than one boy?" He ran out and bought an additional crib and a double stroller.

Five more children would follow, another girl and then four boys. Memere shined as a mother. She taught her children and played with them, created fun games and performed impromptu concerts. They watched her in parades as a drum majorette with her father's marching band. She swooped them away from their father's wrath whenever he caught them in the midst of destructive mischief. She taught them to swim, something her own mother had never learned to do for fear of the water. To say that she enjoyed her children is an understatement. She took no bullshit and could be a tough broad when she had to be, but she loved her daughters and sons with an unmatchable ferocity. 

Likewise she loved her husband. They were true partners, she would say. He never made her feel less-than, never treated her as anything less than an equal. For a time she became a salesman (saleswoman?) right alongside him, traveling to sell the stainless steel cookware that they both swore by. It was a short foray; the kids missed her too darn much, and she missed them as well.

Many years later they retired and built a cozy log-home, the same one my husband would buy at the age of 21 to ensure that it stayed in the family. (And the same one that would, seven years later, burn down. Memere never held it against us!) They gardened, canned, indulged the growing brood of grandchildren with candy, sweets, and television. Pepere became a Deacon, which meant Memere had to go back to school too. They were made to take the marriage prep test, the one all couples must do during pre-Cana, twice because the first time they had the same exact answers to each and every question. The proctor thought that they had somehow cheated and made them take it again. Same result. They were just that in-sync.

They travelled to Haiti as missionaries. Pepere, still strong and wiry, worked and built and celebrated Mass for the people there. He was terribly ill and lost a tremendous amount of weight, forcing them to return home early at Memere's urging. But in the time they were there, Memere worked with the sisters - cooking, cleaning, whatever was required. And, of course, she cherished the time spent with the children. The young boys and girls flocked to them, and many of them cried when they left. Several would come and stay with them after they had returned to America, given the opportunity to receive medical treatment and surgeries they wouldn't have had access to at home. Memere loved having her home filled with children, even if they only got to stay for a little while.

They never got to travel to Europe, as they had always dreamed of doing. Pepere died relatively young - early 70s. She prayed daily for so many years to be reunited with him in death; she had to wait 25 years. 

There is so much more I could say, I could write. Memories I have with her, of her with my children, how much my boys loved their "Little Memere," as they called her. Thanks to Covid, it had been more than a year since we had seen her, but mercifully I was able to visit her with my husband and our oldest before she passed. For forty minutes we held her hand, talked to her, smiled at her, shed quiet tears. She whispered that she loves us, that she'll pray for us, she asked God to bless us. It was beautiful and I will be eternally grateful for that time we had together. 

The day of her funeral was beautiful. Warm, lots of sunshine, a bright blue sky. The church was full of fidgeting children; a good percentage of her 18 grandchildren and 43 great-grandchildren were represented. We held the reception at our house - the house we rebuilt from what remained of her log-home - and the children ran through the gardens where she used to spend hours upon hours. She would have been delighted at the sight of them all, their Sunday clothes grass-stained and smeared with spring mud.

I know she wouldn't want any of us to presume she's in Heaven. She'd want us to pray for her soul, that her time in Purgatory be short. I hope and believe it will be. I hope she and all the ones she loved and lost are reunited. I like to picture her cradling that baby sibling she never got to know, cradling the grandchildren and great-grandchildren that never had the chance to grow up. I picture her embracing her mother, their shared smiles and twinkling eyes matched only by the glory of the stars in the heavens. I picture her dancing with Pepere, laughing with her siblings, praying the rosary with her grandparents, and sitting comfortably with her father. I picture her crying joyous tears at meeting her Lord - finally - face-to-face, and of our Blessed Mother smiling warmly at her. And I like to imagine Memere taking the time to play a game of Bridge with my own grandmother.

Please pray for her, because I'd bet my bottom dollar that she's praying for all of us.