Eulogy for Mary and Sal
Here is the eulogy I delivered at my grandparents' memorial service yesterday.
When I was a little girl, Grandma and Grandpa would visit us in Los Angeles. Frequently, about an hour prior to dinner, Grandpa would decide it was time for his daily walk. More often than not, I was all too happy to tag along. Just before we headed out the door, my mother would look sternly at Grandpa and say "No ice cream." After a non-committal grunt, he'd shut the door behind us and we'd head straight to the ice cream store. Upon our return, my mother would ask us,"How was the walk" choosing to ignore the tell-tale traces of mint chocolate chip around the corners of my mouth.
What my mother and grandpa both knew is that grandparents get a special set of prerogatives, particularly when they are visiting from the other coast. And no one was more entitled to these grandparental prerogatives than Mary and Sal.
Being on the other coast did not stop them from being extraordinary grandparents. I do believe that Arbor Day might be the only holiday for which I did not consistently receive a card.
Sometimes the generation gap seemed akin to the Grand Canyon. I remember Grandma diligently trying to understand the concept of "electronic mail" until I gave up in frustration and decided her life would be just as fulfilled without that particular bit of knowledge.
But across cross-country distances and oh-so-wide generation gaps, the extraordinary love of Grandma and Grandpa nurtured me, celebrated my accomplishments, worried for me, but mostly, grew with me. As tragic as it was for us to lose them both within a few days of each other, I can't really imagine it any other way. They were Grandma AND Grandpa and they completed each other in a way no one of us can ever fully comprehend. And it was that wholeness that they shared between them that allowed them the wondrous love they bestowed upon their family.
I often fell short of being the world's best granddaughter, yet I received unconditional love, as did my father. My sister is luckily young enough not to bear any responsibility for being a good or bad grandchild. As an adult, I cannot make that claim. Perhaps someday I will know what it is to have such tremendous, unending love for someone you don't always understand, who forgets your birthday occasionally, who seems consistently irritable and frustrated with you and who doesn't call nearly enough. And when I reach that point, I will have received Grandma and Grandpa's final and best gift of all.
When I was a little girl, Grandma and Grandpa would visit us in Los Angeles. Frequently, about an hour prior to dinner, Grandpa would decide it was time for his daily walk. More often than not, I was all too happy to tag along. Just before we headed out the door, my mother would look sternly at Grandpa and say "No ice cream." After a non-committal grunt, he'd shut the door behind us and we'd head straight to the ice cream store. Upon our return, my mother would ask us,"How was the walk" choosing to ignore the tell-tale traces of mint chocolate chip around the corners of my mouth.
What my mother and grandpa both knew is that grandparents get a special set of prerogatives, particularly when they are visiting from the other coast. And no one was more entitled to these grandparental prerogatives than Mary and Sal.
Being on the other coast did not stop them from being extraordinary grandparents. I do believe that Arbor Day might be the only holiday for which I did not consistently receive a card.
Sometimes the generation gap seemed akin to the Grand Canyon. I remember Grandma diligently trying to understand the concept of "electronic mail" until I gave up in frustration and decided her life would be just as fulfilled without that particular bit of knowledge.
But across cross-country distances and oh-so-wide generation gaps, the extraordinary love of Grandma and Grandpa nurtured me, celebrated my accomplishments, worried for me, but mostly, grew with me. As tragic as it was for us to lose them both within a few days of each other, I can't really imagine it any other way. They were Grandma AND Grandpa and they completed each other in a way no one of us can ever fully comprehend. And it was that wholeness that they shared between them that allowed them the wondrous love they bestowed upon their family.
I often fell short of being the world's best granddaughter, yet I received unconditional love, as did my father. My sister is luckily young enough not to bear any responsibility for being a good or bad grandchild. As an adult, I cannot make that claim. Perhaps someday I will know what it is to have such tremendous, unending love for someone you don't always understand, who forgets your birthday occasionally, who seems consistently irritable and frustrated with you and who doesn't call nearly enough. And when I reach that point, I will have received Grandma and Grandpa's final and best gift of all.