My name's in the paper!
In an obituary, but that still counts, right?
My stepmom's mother died very suddenly and unexpectedly Monday morning. (Well, it wasn't unexpected on Monday: the heart attack on Saturday was unexpected.) The funeral was yesterday in Minnetonka, and she and my dad will come back tomorrow and finish sitting shiva in Brooklyn. I stayed here and ordered a thousand pounds of smoked fish. Also some cookies.
I felt weird not saying anything about it, as though it didn't matter: I adore my stepmom, and her mother was a lovely woman, who was very fond of me, my siblings, my husband, and my father. I only got to spend a little time with her on her couple of trips to New York, and my few trips to Minnesota, but I liked her a lot. The weekend of my wedding, both she and my husband's tattooed and bald groomsman were staying at my father's house: she made him tea in the kitchen, and they had a long talk. They both made a very favorable impression on each other. She gave me a recipe for a breakfast casserole that I particularly liked the last time I ate at her house: she copied it out for me in neat script on a little notecard with vegetables printed on it. I haven't attempted it yet, but I think I will, soon.
So, all this is by way of saying: a lovely woman lived, and raised two daughters, and buried her first husband far too young. She remarried a very nice widower, who treated her daughters well, and whose kids adored her. She came to my wedding, and was happy for me, and gave me a recipe once when I said I liked it, like a grandmotehr would. And now she's dead, too suddenly, and she will be greatly missed.
All that said, I don't really need anything, aside from some reassurance that a) no one will go hungry at the shiva, and b) that I will not be embarrassed when my father gets back and sees how much smoked fish I ordered. I tend to throw food at problems when I'm stressed.
My stepmom's mother died very suddenly and unexpectedly Monday morning. (Well, it wasn't unexpected on Monday: the heart attack on Saturday was unexpected.) The funeral was yesterday in Minnetonka, and she and my dad will come back tomorrow and finish sitting shiva in Brooklyn. I stayed here and ordered a thousand pounds of smoked fish. Also some cookies.
I felt weird not saying anything about it, as though it didn't matter: I adore my stepmom, and her mother was a lovely woman, who was very fond of me, my siblings, my husband, and my father. I only got to spend a little time with her on her couple of trips to New York, and my few trips to Minnesota, but I liked her a lot. The weekend of my wedding, both she and my husband's tattooed and bald groomsman were staying at my father's house: she made him tea in the kitchen, and they had a long talk. They both made a very favorable impression on each other. She gave me a recipe for a breakfast casserole that I particularly liked the last time I ate at her house: she copied it out for me in neat script on a little notecard with vegetables printed on it. I haven't attempted it yet, but I think I will, soon.
So, all this is by way of saying: a lovely woman lived, and raised two daughters, and buried her first husband far too young. She remarried a very nice widower, who treated her daughters well, and whose kids adored her. She came to my wedding, and was happy for me, and gave me a recipe once when I said I liked it, like a grandmotehr would. And now she's dead, too suddenly, and she will be greatly missed.
All that said, I don't really need anything, aside from some reassurance that a) no one will go hungry at the shiva, and b) that I will not be embarrassed when my father gets back and sees how much smoked fish I ordered. I tend to throw food at problems when I'm stressed.