Good afternoon.On behalf of my sisters -- Sheryl,
Julie and Lynn - my cousins, Matt, Elizabeth and Heather, my nieces
and nephews, Zachary, Courtney, Siona, Arielle, Daniel, Garrett,
Nicholas and Allyson, thank you for being here with us.
Before I begin, I need to explain something to you. To us, Claire Friess wasn't just "Grandma." She was "Grandma Grandma." Many years ago, my oldest sister needed some way to distinguish between her two grandmothers, both of whom coincidentally were named Claire. Claire Friess became "Grandma Grandma," the grandma we liked so much we named her twice. It wasn't meant as an insult to my other grandmother, who has her own attributes and is special and loved in her own way.
But Grandma Grandma was an accurate name for this amazing woman we remember today, a woman who defined her life first and foremost for the past four decades as our grandmother. "Grandma Grandma" became the way she introduced herself to our friends, the way she'd leave a message on our answering machines at our college dorms, the way she signed cards. I never checked her driver's license, but honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if it was there, too.
Grandma Grandma was the very definition of a Jewish grandma -- short, wrinkled, talkative, nosy, opinionated, thoughtful, generous, empathetic, always ready with a witty but wise expression and always at the epicenter of whatever was happening in the family. Every birthday, every holiday, every bar and bat mitzvah, every wedding, every graduation, every dance recital, every awards ceremony, every sickness, every crisis.
Grandma Grandma was just always there -- always there to let me fish through her pocketbook for that ratty pink beaded pouch where the "grandma candy" always was. You know, the sort of hard candy
that had been sitting there so long it became gooey so that it was impossible to get the entire wrapper off. Grandma candy.
Grandma Grandma was the goo that held us together. Only she could bring together this entire far-flung family for the first time in almost five years. When the signal went out last weekend that she was failing, we flocked in from Arizona, Nevada, California, Pennsylvania and Florida. She was so proud of all of us for gathering around her as she slipped away, supporting one another. She taught us well, and we proved worthy students. At the very end, she was able to go in peace when she opened her eyes and saw that we were all together and that Grandpa would be looked after.
What struck me most over the past few days was that I had
always thought that I had this special relationship with Grandma
Grandma -- and then I discovered that everybody else felt they
did, too. We all thought ours was a special relationship because
Grandma Grandma made each of us feel so special - and surely,
nobody could have enough love to make so many people feel so
important. But she did. Grandma Grandma did. Each of us were
the favorite, if that makes any sense. I think so. That's how
large her heart was.
For me, one particular anecdote springs to mind. I was 24 years old and I had just arrived in Las Vegas for my new job there. It was all new to me, my job didn't start for a few days and my apartment was starkly empty because my furniture hadn't arrived yet. I felt so alone, so scared, so uncertain of the decision I'd made to move. I couldn't sleep, so I waited and waited until the clock struck 3 a.m. -- or 6 a.m. in New York.
She answered the phone as if she had been waiting for this call. I just let out a torrent of tears. Somehow, even though we were 3,000 miles apart, I could feel the comfort of her hand patting me on the back, letting me unleash my fear and sadness on her shoulder. And, when she decided I'd cried enough, she stopped me. "Steven," she said, "You aren't alone. You have so many people who love you. They may not be there with you now, but you have family and friends everywhere." After a while, she told me to go to bed. I reminded her that I didn't have a bed or even a pillow.
"Do you have any toilet paper in the house?" she asked.
I was puzzled. "Umm, yeah. I bought a 16-pack."
"OK, so this is what you do," she said. "Take one roll out of the pack and put it in the bathroom. You'll need that there. Then wrap the package of toilet paper in a sweatshirt or something. That's your pillow. Good night! I'll talk to you again."
You know, I told a colleague yesterday that my grandmother had died. My colleague said, "I'm so sorry to hear that. Was she old?"
I thought about that. Sure, she was 87. But was she "old?" No, I really don't think so. She worked well into her 70s at Queens College, interacting with young people and remaining current. And she had us -- her seven grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren -- to keep her young.
In fact, what is so startling about the reality of this day, of this event, is that most of us were in denial about her age and her condition precisely because she didn't want us to think of her as being "old." In that way, our relationships with her were completely selfish -- and she wouldn't have had it any other way.
We called her and told her everything about our lives. In turn, she almost never complained to us about her aches and pains. Our job was to distract her from that, and we were happy to also be distracted from that reality, too. That way, we were all able to pretend that she would simply always be there, that she would live forever.
When a force of nature simply ceases to be, it is incredibly disorienting. It is impossible to come to grips with the idea that Grandma Grandma will no longer be standing at her sink in Bayside attempting to force-feed us animal crackers or slices of apple. It is impossible to imagine that her unique voice won't be answering the phone anymore, that we'll never again hear her boom, "Oh, hello, bubbula." I'm telling you, if I write the story of her life someday, it will have to be called, "Hello, Bubbula!"
Someday, I will have a daughter of my own. She, too, will be named Claire Friess. And if she possesses even a small sprinkle of the magic that this magnificent original did, the world had better watch out. But, of course, there isn't any doubt that she will, because so much of my grandmother resides in me, my parents, my aunts and uncles, my sisters, my cousins, my nephews and nieces.
If this 31-year journey has taught me anything so far, it is that we are the sum total of those who shape us.
Many years ago, I noticed something about my grandmother. She didn't just say "Goodbye" when we spoke on the telephone. Instead, she always said, "Goodbye. I'll talk to you again." And so, for all of those here who don't want to just say "Goodbye," let us instead say, "I'll talk to you again."
Somewhere, some day. I'll talk to you again, Grandma.
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