My grandmother, who was 102, died a week ago. It is sad, and also not sad, since she died at home and did not linger, and that is pretty much what she wanted. Mostly, though, it is odd that she isn’t alive anymore, since it had begun to seem like she would be alive forever.
She was amazingly bright. She was a tartar. She had an interesting and somewhat difficult childhood which I don’t think she ever really recovered from. She drove my mother and my aunt insane and they adored her. She wasn’t my mother, which mostly meant our relationship was a lot easier than that, but it was difficult to live up to her expectations.
She wanted to talk about Middlemarch when I was there two weeks ago. In her later years she’s been reading her way through the classics. She loved Trollope. I think she may not have liked Jane Austen. I’d been recommending Middlemarch for years, and she had finally finished reading an edition with insanely tiny print that my mother had brought her. I’m glad she read it. It is one of my favorite books. In any case, she did not have much sympathy for Dorothea. Lydgate was the one she liked.
I keep turning that over in my mind and wondering what it means.
Here she is sitting on her father’s knee. Her little sister is on his other side, and behind them stand her mother and her mother’s mother, I think. I’m guessing they are in Idaho.