Clara Zolinski, 1923-2006

 

My Grandma passed away on July 4th. I'm sure I'll have more to say on her in the near future, but this is what I wrote the night before the funeral.

On the morning of July 4th I woke up to a phone call from my youngest sister.

"Danny," she said. "Come over. Grandma died"

I don’t try to live up to many macho ideals, but for whatever reason I don’t cry. My wife likes to remind me that the only time she’s seen me shed a tear was when the Yankees lost the World Series. But on the way to my Mom’s house that morning I couldn’t stop the tears. I could barely make out the road in front of my car.

My Grandmother did not raise me – I had a Mom and Dad for that, and I thank them for a job well done. But we lived with my Grandma most of my childhood, and she had a big part in many of my memories.

I remember Grandma making oxygen tanks out of empty bread bags for a little boy obsessed with being a firefighter.

I remember her subscribing to National Geographic because she thought it would help us in school. I don’t think I ever opened a single issue, but even at the time I thought it was sweet.

I remember her obsession with collecting recipes and watching cooking shows; this, despite the fact that she never cooked anything but the same 6 meals in rotation.

I remember her sitting patiently every weeknight, watching Dr. Who with her grandson and pretending to be interested.

I remember her pitching soft toss in the backyard to a baseball obsessed young man who should have known better than to be proud of hitting a 70 year old’s pitching.

I remember how much she loved pork chops, and how happy I was to bring her a plate of them from a restaurant where I worked.

I remember her constant attempts to slip cash into your hand whenever you did her a favor.

I remember when she was the only person, other than my wife, to flat out tell me that I wasn’t living up to my potential when I had a dead end job.

I remember how she never kissed anyone but her husband with her lips, sucking them in even for a kiss on her great-grandson’s cheek – and how that very same woman jokingly announced at a Thanksgiving dinner that her husband had gone bald because he kept bumping his head on their headboard.

I remember how she claimed for decades that she and my Grandpa had never fought.

And I remember how she recanted that stance when counseling me after a fight with my wife, because her grandson was more important to her than an idealistic memory.

In a lot of ways my Grandma was overshadowed by the memories I had of my Grandpa. He died when I was nine, and I remember all of the good times and very few of the bad.

I lived with Grandma for 17 years, and I know her faults every bit as well as I know my own. I like to joke that Grandma was the 2nd greatest arguer our house ever produced – almost as good as me.

But in hindsight, I’m grateful that I know the good with the bad.

My Grandpa gave me an exaggerated ideal to live up to, but my Grandma gave me a greater gift: the chance to see that even the best of people make mistakes, fail, and never reach perfection. She taught me that even our hero’s are made of flesh and blood, and that gave me liberty to forgive my own faults and try again.

For that – and everything else she did for me – I thank her.

And I miss her already.