Granny

I remember being surprised at how little the coffin weighed. Of course my grandmother had lost a great deal of weight during the last year of her life. I couldn't help but wonder how little remained of a long, long life. It seemed to me that all those years should have added up to some more substance.

I had been asked to be one of the six pallbearers. The other five were my father and four uncles of mine, or rather they were the husbands of my aunts because my grandmother had had six daughters who had all married. My fifth uncle was incapacitated at the time and I took his place carrying the casket with my granny to her last resting place.

Only two years before we had celebrated her 100th birthday. One hundred and two years old - that was her age when she died a few years ago. As long as I'd known her she'd been an ample, strong woman. One of the most vivid memories I have of her is her holding a giant loaf of bread against her bosom with one arm while cutting wafer-thin slices off it. These slices were so large the edges spilled over my plate. When I was a young boy I'd marvelled at her ability to cut bread so accurately. On some occasions she'd offer me a drink of grenadine that was so sweet it would make your lips stick together. I drank it form a very thin glass, so thin that I was afraid it would break if I wrapped my fingers around it. The glass had a do-it-yourself quality because it was uneven and was nothing like the glasses you can buy today. It was engraved with intricate geometrical figures. It was very hard to put down on the table, because that was covered with a very thick tablecloth which made for a wobbly surface. I used to drink that syrupy sweet grenadine in one gulp. I still have the glass in my cabinet, as she gave it to me ten years ago, together with some gin-glasses of the same design.

She had married my grandfather after his first wife had died. My grandfather was a very strict looking, sombre man who carried the burden of the particular kind of Protestantism that prevailed in that part of the country. A belief that offered no comfort, consolation or joy. Man's existence on earth was a test. A vale of tears. Laughter is sin. But not for her! As if to neutralize his gloom she was a cheerful woman, who laughed a great deal.

In the backroom of their small council house was a wooden cupboard with holes in one of the doors and in the side. A piece of shrapnel that was fired by Canadian troops during the liberation of our country had pierced it. To him the holes, which he could have fixed easily as he was a skilled carpenter, were a reminder of how close they had come to being killed. And being killed by the 'wrong' side. Being killed in a war is one thing, but being killed by the people who were supposed to be your rescuers was quite another!

To her these holes stood for the lucky escape they'd had. They reminded her of the hardships of war, certainly. Eating tulip bulbs and burning a stove only when the driver of a passing train had been kind enough to throw a piece of coal in the road beside the tracks. But most importantly they reminded her of the liberation, the freedom. And them having survived!
When her husband died and she moved to an Old People's Home, she finally had the cupboard fixed.

I used to think that everybody's grandmother wore clothes like hers, as my other granny who came from the same tiny village was dressed in the same way. It was quite a shock to me to find out that other boys' grannies wore ordinary dresses and skirts. I couldn't believe that grey hair alone sufficed to qualify as a grandmother. Surely they had to wear the same traditional clothes I was used to seeing my grannies in.

These clothes took her more than 30 minutes to put on. On Sundays and other special occasions it took even longer, as she had to pay special attention to the folds, the pleats and the creases. Not to mention the wide ceremonial cap and the gold pieces that were worn to the side of the head like rear-view mirrors. When I'd discovered this traditional type of dress was geographically and religiously determined (Catholics and Protestants wore different headgear) it became clear to me that this was so much part of her life and her identity that once she'd give up making the effort of dressing like that, it would mean the end. And that proved to be the case. Only 6 weeks after she stopped going to the trouble of putting on her regional dress, she passed away.

So there I was, together with my uncles, carrying her to her grave. A woman who had seen the introduction of the automobile in her little corner of the world, the electric light, the telephone, radio, television and the computer, which she insisted on calling 'comptooter'. A woman who had seen and survived two world wars. The last of her generation.

She laughed last, and she certainly laughed best.