“317”: An Ode to My Grandmother
“Over the hills and through the woods” I suppose packs more of a lyrical punch than “Up Interstate 95 and northwest on 87.” But, in my own experience, the narrative significance is the same. Grandmother’s house was where I spent many holidays. Many sumptuous, family-filled holidays…that is, until 2003, when she passed from this world. If she were alive, today would’ve been her 92nd birthday. I often wonder what she would’ve thought about various cultural flashpoints if she had lived to see them—the election of Barack Obama, the election of Donald Trump, Covid-19, Netflix, Facebook, social media, Hamilton, and so on and so on.
My grandmother- born Eleanor Harrower- was the quintessential nuclear matriarch. She married in her late teens, she became a widow in her late twenties, and she was a mother to six (five sons, one daughter). My grandmother looked a lot like Jackie Kennedy in her youth…dark hair, large black sunglasses, and chic apparel.
At age 49, she married her late sister-in-law’s husband…a great, surprising windfall to both her six children and seven nieces/nephews (who, in essence, were all basically siblings). For a grand halcyon period of 24 years, she and her new husband embraced their roles as grandparents at their own “Camelot,” if you will…one that we all affectionately call “317” (the address).
The large CMGC (Committee of Millennial Grandchildren) did love seeing her every summer she visited the nearby family farmhouse (bearing large grocery bags of “guilty pleasure” junk food, of course), as well as our delightful coastal village a stone’s throw south from Portland, Maine.
However, it was “317” during the holidays that we remember the most. Christmas Eve feasts with steak, turkey, potatoes, garlic bread, cookies, and all things that epitomize Irish and/or Italian fare. Grand stairwells…secret, Narnia-like hideaways…and all sorts of gadgets that long preceded the era of touchscreens.
One year, a tunnel spanning the countless floors of this great Victorian home snaked its way to the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. Or…well…that’s at least what the CMGC would’ve thought given the tree’s enormous size and the mountains of presents at its base.
The ultimate memory I have of her doesn’t involve a tunnel, though. It involves a slide…a spiraling steel slide. I glide down and there she is…arms out, big smile, and bright eyes…. genuine, grandmotherly love! This is the first memory I have of her and the first memory I have at all.
“Childhood amnesia” is a common term in the psychiatric and neuroscientific community. For some reason that consciousness won’t make us privy to, we don’t usually retain memories until age 2-4. But we all each have our own “first memory.” Maybe it was eating ice cream, standing in the ocean, or plodding through the snow. Or…as is often the case… we inaugurate some significant episode in which a loving caregiver tended to us.
As is also often the case, though, she was the first blood-relative of mine to pass. Learning about our own mortality…and the inevitable mortality of everyone we know and love…I associate that timeless rite of passage with her as well. But…not necessarily in a bad way. The earnest conversation your mom or dad has with you about the “birds and the bees” pales in comparison to the one you have regarding the “undiscovered country.”
Reflections of that surfaced during the tumultuous year of 2020. Covid-19 was everywhere, and I also sadly bid farewell to a beloved furry companion. I work in a field that corresponds with palliative care and hospice agencies, and so there is that association as well. Whenever that common train of thoughts leaves its station, though, it always passes by “317.”
You might be thinking: “How awful! How depressing!” I never saw my grandmother in her final weeks or days (she died from cancer), and it’s probably a good thing I didn’t. Death is terrifying, and the thought of it is as well. But when “317” pairs itself to that thought, “317” chases all the terror away.
I only remember what every child hopefully only remembers. The kind grandmother we find in fairytales whose baked cookies we always gravitate towards; the kind of grandmother whose home we flash back to as a splendorous palace; the kind of grandmother whose aura of warm, welcoming love hopefully mirrors a spirit of warm, welcoming love we find when our final day arrives. The kind of love that waits at the bottom of the slide for us.
Wherever in the four dimensions you may be, Grandma, we miss you, love you, and wish you a happy 92nd birthday!
