Sail On, Silver Girl

My grandmother died two years ago today, at 9 o'clock in the evening. Two hours before that, I'd talked to her. She said she was okay, but tired, and was about to eat dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup, which her friend was bringing to her—and that she'd talk to me the next day, after she'd rested. She was recovering from surgery on her carotid artery, three days before, and the death of her husband of 49 years, nine weeks before. She fell asleep on her sofa with her friend at her side, had a massive heart attack, and was gone. She was 68.

Grandmom is the author of my most, maybe only, cherished childhood memory. Twice a year for about five years, starting when I was seven, she took me into downtown Philadelphia for a day. We went to museums, historic sites, old department stores with marble floors and crystal chandeliers, Christmas plays, parades, parks. We'd take the train into the city (!!!!!!!!), and Grandpop would meet us for dinner at a fancy-pants restaurant. I always got to order from the adult menu, and my little sister never got to come. We held hands and walked down the street singing songs. One time, I struck up a round of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and by the twelfth day a horde of people was following us down the street, singing along. I didn't know all the words, but someone in the crowd did, and I learned them that day and never forgot. For two days a year, I was just a happy, curious little girl, a special little girl. Grandmom used two whole vacation days a year, just to spend them with me.

I firmly believe that I would not have made it to adulthood with half my sanity if I couldn't cling to that memory.

According to a newspaper clipping I found in her office, my grandmom was the first female officer in the Civil Air Patrol. She was awarded a full scholarship to Oxford University to study English literature and was engaged to a British nobleman named Richard, who gave her a gold ID bracelet that says "Thelma & Dick," which I now possess. As legend has it, in 1957 she visited him in England, and he took her to Liverpool to see the Quarrymen play (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). But she forewent college and jilted Richard for my grandfather (which is understandable, based on pictures I've seen of Grandpop at that time).

them

the topper from

their wedding cake

Together, they helped to organize Woodstock, where Grandmom earned the enduring nickname "The Maharani of Kumquat." I don't know how. Evidently, Gracie Slick was an insufferable prima donna, Janis Joplin was a riot, and Jimi Hendrix was way too stoned to be any fun at all.

some of the loot—their tickets, the Life Magazine special edition,

a bumper sticker, and two of the hand-screened "Festival" signs that they

helped to hang along the last 20 miles of highway 17B

a page from the Life Magazine—this woman's dress is possibly the most gorgeous dress I've ever seen. No, seriously.

them, bottom center,

with their "spirit-family"

the shirt she's wearing in the picture

They also attended the first Newport Jazz Festival. In 1974, they won $40,000 in the Pennsylvania lottery. With it, they flew to Great Britain, bought a motorcycle, and rode around, doing whatever felt good and sleeping on the roadside, until the money ran out. It took six weeks. Then, they sold the motorcycle for money to fly home. Grandmom could put six bullets through the dead center of a target with a revolver at 150 feet. She could fly a plane, stand on her head, skydive, sail a boat, drive a race car, and tap out 50 words per minute in Morse code. She wore a bomber jacket and leather pants regularly, and she went to the office in a power suit and pumps every day until she died. She was so badass.

Grandmom and Grandpop didn't want a funeral. So on a drizzling spring afternoon, we took their ashes to Van Sant Airport, a quaint grass strip for private and vintage aircraft in Upper Bucks County. We blended them together and sent them up with my aunt in a banana-colored '47 Piper Cub. She released them over the Delaware River, and they slid down into the river together and drifted out to the ocean they loved so well. My aunt and I were there for them. My sister and husband were there for me. And there were no other witnesses.

Grandmom was proud of me, never yelled at me, and made me feel special. She called me Tootsie. I haven't really mourned her death, because I've been afraid that I would loose the parts of me that she put there. Even though grilled cheese and tomato soup is one of my favorite meals, I stopped making it two years ago, because it was her last meal, and if I ate it, she was really gone.

But today, that's what I made for lunch. I didn't even think of it; I just came home and started to cook. It was so good. I really miss my grandmom.

This was her favorite song. It's one of mine, too. My heart sings it always, for everyone I love. Today, for her.