I had the honor of speaking at my paternal grandmother's memorial service in Indianapolis this past weekend. I wrote out my remarks because I tend to cry a lot at funerals (even for people I didn't know) so I wanted to have a script to keep me grounded. Below are my remarks.
Thank you everyone for being here to celebrate the life of my
grandmother, Margaret Lou Dellinger. It is a real honor for me to speak on
behalf of my family, and it means a lot for me to be here, in Indianapolis, the
family seat of the Dellingers.
I was born and raised in New Jersey, but I came to
Indianapolis twice a year for most of childhood, and have a lot of great
memories of this place. The first time I got on a plane was to come to Indiana,
but who could forget the 12 hour drives each way across the great states of
Pennsylvania and Ohio with my dad. Those trips were like Dellinger Cultural
Immersion programs, with the books on tape and geology lectures from my dad as
we drove through the landscape.
It is in Indianapolis that I played Hearts with my aunt and
uncles, walked with Uncle Roger’s dogs around Eagle Creek, and first met my
cousins. I met Matt, the youngest cousin, when he wasn’t quite yet walking, an
incredibly joyful experience for me as I was used to being the absolute baby of
my family. I got to know Jerry and Jimmy meet their children, the ever
open-hearted Amber and Dustin. For me, Indianapolis is where the Dellingers
come together.
So I understand my Grandmother’s reluctance to leave her Indiana
home late in her life. Though she spent many years raising her family outside
of Buffalo in Tanawanda, New York, she was a Hoosier to the core: raised on a
farm in Mays, she ventured into Indianapolis during the war and met her husband,
Hartley, there at a dance. She brought all four of her kids home from the
hospital to her house Speedway. She made a real presence for herself in the
community with her volunteering, the Presbyterian church, her neighbors, her
bridge circles, and her friends.
That said, Margaret Lou was always comfortable to stand on
her own. When I brought my husband, Kris, out to meet her, we expected our long
weekend visit to be spent almost entirely altogether. But she had different
ideas. She was very eager to make sure that we were busy exploring the area,
but preferred to be left alone in the house to read her books and listen to
basketball games on the radio, and could we please just let her know if we’d be
back for lunch and dinner. And maybe, if pressed, could we bring her back a
sandwich from Arby’s.
This was the hardy stock of the Greatest Generation: born in
1925, and raised by her mother on a farm in the Great Depression. They had an
outhouse until she left home to go to the big city. It’s a story I tell anyone
who will listen. I’m proud of where I come from. It’s not something you hear
everyday in 2014 New Jersey.
To me, some of the best things about my grandmother to me are
hallmarks of her stoic upbringing.
She recycled greeting cards and envelopes, which I remember
fondly, as we were penpals since as I started writing until she no longer could.
She sent dispatches on the unpredictable local weather, her family visits and
social engagements, and her family history.
She made her own bread, left to rise in coffee cans on the
counter. To this day, any time I smell or taste fresh homemade bread, I am
transported back to her breakfast table.
She had huge blueberry bushes in her backyard and we would
walk out back to pick enough to make a blueberry pie, and eat it, still warm,
with vanilla ice cream melting on top, in the heart of Midwestern summer. She
grew rhubarb and squash and a whole lot of other things that I didn’t pay much
attention to if they didn’t make good pie filling.
She took absolute joy in the simple pleasure and steady
company of books, and read voraciously, keeping a catalog of all the titles she
read, a habit she started as a girl, to show that the few dollars that went
towards her obtaining her library card were well worth it.
She was notorious for, in her 70s and 80s, raking and bagging
her own leaves. This was very alarming to learn as her long distance relatives,
but I always quietly admired her spirit and gumption.
And though we did live far and couldn’t see each other as
much as some grandparents and children too, I thought the world of my
grandmother, so much so that I once wondered out loud if she didn’t wish that
she wasn’t born at a different time, when she would have been afforded all the
opportunities of a modern woman. Because in my opinion, she could have done
anything -- taken all her smarts and self-assuredness and made a big splash in
the career world. I meant it as the utmost compliment. But she went out of her
way to tell me that she had no regrets or bigger wishes, and that she took
umbrage at my suggestion. She had absolute fulfillment in the impact she made
on her family and community, and would not have had it any other way. It was a
communication that has stayed with me, and a lesson that I will never forget.
Don’t ever sell short the contribution that you are to the people you touch in
your lifetime. That is the real work.
There’s a photograph of my Grandmother in the
front of a canoe, in a sleeveless blouse and pleated skirt, paddling into a
lake in the North Woods. I love it because it captures just how proper she
always was but, at the same time, how bold and out front she is in that moment.
My Uncle Roger pointed out that she couldn’t swim. And there was no life vest.
Grandma was a brave woman, with an indomitable spirit, and it is with gratitude
that I honor such a great woman who went before me here today.
