At the celebration, there were many wonderful words said about Mary. Here are a few of them.
"Adjectives about my grandmother come easily, and even after flying through twenty you realize there are not enough. Gramma lived her life like a love letter to the universe; she was always good at catching peoples' attention and the very best kind of troublesome. She remained political long after the age that it was 'acceptable' for women to be political at, whatever that is. With white hair she ran for the NDP and forever instilled bias in me that you can never be too progressive. She was warm, she was smart, and she was different. Every winter I wrapped myself with wool woven by an up and coming textile artist instead of something that she had knit. She certainly wasn’t domestically incompetent, but who had time to cook when you had an entire country to save?
With superior instinct for what would be cool one day, she appeared, fresh from Heathrow Airport, with one of the first copies of Harry Potter tucked into her arm. My mother had given her specific instructions for some other book I wanted for my birthday. My pre-teen self accepted the novel gingerly, but never letting on a mild disappointment. An hour later, I was begging Gramma to keep reading, to finish the fifth chapter, then the sixth. It is also worth mentioning that right before she started to slip away from us, Gramma told me to start listening to the Arcade Fire, because in her words, “They do a lot of random yelling in the background but they’re from Montreal, so I think they’re going to get really big.”
Gramma always knew.
The university I went to is small, liberal, and feminist, as well as the place where Gramma earned her doctorate. The Marimekko poppy pattern that I am now obsessed with was strewn all over her upstairs guest room.The prints on her walls exposed me to Andy Warhol at age five. The journals she bought me every year are the reason I write. I am an activist because she brought new refugees to the country to dinner, and helped a family from Kosovo figure out a place to stay when they first came to Canada. She also did this with Japanese dancers while they performed, and Brazilian writers as they were passing through Halifax.
Although she lost her memory and most of her ability to communicate when I was coming of age, it was then that she truly impacted me the most. No matter where I went, I would mention my last name and people would ask... "Oh my. You must be related to Mary!" Artists, politicians, restaurant owners, musicians, gallery attendants, park managers; they all knew her. And once they knew who I was, it was as if they knew me. Instead of writing me instructions telling me how to live my life, my grandmother gave me a unique last name that introduced me to all the right people who helped me flourish after she could no longer speak with any clarity.
One of the last times I went to see her, I brought the Roald Dalh Anthology, one of my favourite presents she ever gave me, and read to her the lesser known epic works of magic that Mr. Dalh had penned. The Minpins, The Twits, old favourites came out of my mouth until my throat went dry; the same way she had read to me. She was not strewn across the couch doing acrobatics, but the familiarity of the scene and the reversal of the roles shook me for a long time. What kept me from bursting into a sad, cold sweat was the way she kept looking up at my boyfriend Luke as she grabbed onto his hand while I read. As he was not in my life until after the Alzheimers' set in, we were not sure how she would react to him. The woman who once threw entire dinner parties for near complete strangers now could hardly handle an unfamiliar face... and so many of them were unfamiliar. So even though she called me Catharine three times that night, it was okay, because she clasped onto Luke's hand repeatedly and blinked and smiled, the only way she could say, "He is good!" Either that, or she thought he was handsome. From what I understand, Gramma was always a rather gifted flirt.
Of course, everyone always speaks publicly about the good memories. The dancing, the drinking, the evenings in the garden when everyone was speaking about everything so late that the streetlights came on roll off the tongue easily with a trace of a tear. But where Grama truly shone was during the upsetting and the intimate. There are no better tales of Gramma than the ones no one wants to tell. I remember being just eight when I declared a war against my body and decided I was the ugliest duckling of all. When I whispered a watered down version of this sentiment to her, Gramma got very excited. This was the perfect opportunity for her; it was a chance to go to the library AND a chance to blame the mainstream media. Together we sat in the stacks of books and flipped through, noting Marilyn Monroe’s hips, Violet Leduc’s nose, and Freida Khalo’s figure. I emerged not entirely comforted, but very pleased that I had two, separate, distinct eye brows. Gramma did not always know how to solve a situation, but she always knew how to be there during one, and make everyone feel a little bit better.
At almost twenty one, I have been granted the luxury of never having someone I was truly close to die. I have been to funerals of distant relatives and estranged cousins, a million times removed. I have known a tragic number of teenagers who had ended their life. My grandfather passed before I was even born. I did not think death was a new concept to me. But when my mother sent me a text message, "Can you come have dinner tonight?" I almost said no. This sudden, startling request was unusual for an evening where she knew I was busy with work and papers and things that do not matter to me now.
By the time I understood the request, I was in the car to go see her. I was completely unprepared, even though I had expected her death since I was fourteen. I was wearing one of her old scarves, and was carrying a huge bag proudly displaying the Marimekko print once scattered across her old house.
I did not even think of these items as sentimental. They were things I wore every day. When my aunt touched the rich red and gold scarf and sighed, "This is so lovely, this was hers, wasn't it?" I went wide eyed and croaked out a quiet yes. I had almost forgotten its origins. What my aunt thought was a tribute to the perfect grandmother I was there to say goodbye to was actually a testament to just how much she had impacted my life.
I cannot describe the sinking, slipping sensation when I touched her arm. I had no epic final words. What I say now is everything I wish I could have said at the time.
Mary loved raspberry chocolate chip ice cream that she purchased from the Greek convenience store down the road. She loved living in an impeccably well kept old house that was too big for her on a gorgeous street (the neighbours said it was too 'different' when she painted it purple). She taught me to say “Oh, that is SO interesting!” when people express truly ridiculous opinions, like the arts not needing more funding or people who didn’t vote for the NDP. She owned countless shades of lipstick and handmade jewelry she received when she send a micro loan to a womens' organization in Africa. She loved art everywhere, books anywhere, things that were local, and things that were from very far away.
When she stopped being able to create new memories, I was going through a rebellious faze where I had black hair and too much eyeliner on my face. I hope she does not remember me this way. But my insistance to believe in something tells me that she sees me now, and will see me later, and know how she improved me, and know how she shaped me.
Gramma was friends with you because you have a story to tell, even if you do not realize it. Share some wisdom with me; I don’t have her to tell me what to do anymore. You are all vibrant and lovely and charming. I know this, because Gramma told me so. I can feel her now, urging me with impatience in her voice, “No, you have to go see him! You’re in public relations, and he runs the PR department of [this or that or such.] What do you mean, ‘no!’? Social phobia is just another word for not trying hard enough...” Gramma would have loved this. I look forward to meeting all of you because this is, in her eyes, the ultimate networking opportunity. She would have loved to sit and chat with you as you drank and ate. She would have loved the decor of the room, the people in the room, and the words the people said. Gramma most certainly wishes she was here right now to take part, but we all know she would sacrifice anything for the ultimate party."
-Allison Sparling, grand daughter. Many excellent stories were told to me after I presented, and if you have any more, you can reach me at allison.sparling@gmail.com.
Graham and Meridith Dafoe's joint tribute is coming very soon.
