This is the mother of my Mom I'm talking about. Grandma grew up in New York. The Bronx. "Back when it was a nice neighborhood," she used to say. She grew up in a house with two strong-willed Irish Catholic women (her mother and grandmother) and a quiet, thoughtful Irish Catholic man (her father). Her grandmother was the first generation from our family to move to the US from Ireland. As far as I can remember, the only things my Grandma told me about her grandma was that she was very, very old and when my Grandma got into trouble with her mother, her grandma would say, "Oh, leave her alone, she's only a baby," and she could often be found warming her feet at the oven in the heat of the Summer because she had poor circulation.

From what I've learned about the Irish in NYC in those days, life must have been hard. Of this time my Grandma only mentioned that her mother died soon after her grandmother, leaving her quiet, thoughtful father to raise his thirteen-year-old daughter alone. Together they survived the depression and as far as I can tell, lived a pretty happy life together. I wish I could know more. I would have asked her, "What was it like to live with your father? Was he lonely for your mother? Did you talk about that? Who were your female role models?"

My Grandma didn't date much. She did see a man here and there, but she was such a devout Catholic, and most of the men she dated "only had one thing on their mind," as she'd say. Grandma would often pray to St.Joseph to help her find a good husband. She met my Grandpa when she was in her early 30's. She was a secretary, he was a typesetter, and they worked in the same building. He was a dark, handsome-but-stocky Jewish man from Brooklyn. He was captivated by her. My Grandma didn't want anything to do with him at first, but Grandpa was a charmer. He would leave little notes on her desk, "You look lovely today," they would say. Sometimes he'd leave her flowers or a little gift. He was sweet and kind and thoughtful and funny. She couldn't resist for long. They decided to marry. This caused quite a scandal in the family. "Catholics don't marry Jews!" each side of the family balked. But they were in love. Anyone could see that religion didn't matter to them, and the family warmed to the idea. They were married in the back of a Catholic church because in those days "mixed" marriage was unheard-of, and certainly these people were not allowed to get married at the altar! My Grandma wore a green suit with a matching pillbox hat. She made the outfit herself.

My Grandma believed until the day she died that St. Joseph helped her find my Grandpa. Why? Three things: 1. My Grandpa was born on St. Joseph's Day, 2. My Grandpa's father's name was Joseph, 3. Joseph (Grandpa's father) was a carpenter by trade. That story gives me goosebumps every time I tell it. Like I've said before, I'm not the most religious person, but thinking about that makes me really wonder...

Grandma and Grandpa had two daughters, my aunt first and then my Mom. They lived a pleasant, normal life for nearly 15 years in Yonkers, New York, until my Grandpa had a debilitating stroke. He lost the use of his right arm and his right leg was amputated because of gangrene. He was wheelchair-bound. They decided to move to Huntington Beach, California because the climate was better. My Grandma cared for my Grandpa pretty much by herself over the next ten years.

Time passed. My Mom married my Dad, had me, and moved to Kansas City, Missouri. They found a house big enough for Grandma and Grandpa to live with us and moved them to the Midwest. Grandma was getting older and couldn't care for Grandpa as well as she had been. The saddest part was when we had to put Grandpa in a nursing home so he could get full-time care. We tried a few, but no home was very good. There were roaches in one, and uncaring nurses who stole things from him in another. Grandpa lasted about a year in KC. He died in a nursing home. Grandma was devastated. She would tell us over and over, "He was a good man. There was no one else like him."

My Grandma lived for almost 20 years after Grandpa died. She lived with my parents and me. The family (my aunt and cousins, etc.) stayed close together because of Grandma. We always celebrated holidays together. And she took care of me. She read to me, she baked cookies with me, she told me all of the stories of her life. She took me to church with her every Sunday. She doted on me in every way. I used to always think of Grandma as a second mother. We were best friends when I was little. As I became a rebellious teen, I lost interest in Grandma and her stories. "I've heard it all a hundred times, Grandma!" I would say when she started in on another story. I feel like the biggest jerk when I say this, but I treated my Grandma pretty poorly when I was going through my thoughtless teenage years. She was in her eighties when I was nineteen. She had started to forget things and to get confused, common signs of oncoming senility. I knew in the back of my mind that it wasn't her fault, but I would get so angry and frustrated when she would get befuddled. I just didn't fully understand and didn't want to.

I was 21 and living on my own in an apartment when I got the call from my Mom that Grandma had had a stroke. She didn't die right away, and she was very lucid when she first went into the hospital. But it didn't last. She started to fade. I remember very vividly one time when I visited her in the hospital. I thought I could spark her mind by mentioning that I'd just gotten a job at the new Kansas City F.A.O. Schwarz store. All she could say was, "F.A.O....F.A.O...," as if she were trying to remember what it meant. It broke my heart.

She hung on longer than she would have wanted. Grandma always said she didn't want to sit in a hospital, hooked up to machines. But after a month or so, she passed away. If there is a heaven, no one deserves to be there more than my Grandma. And if there is a heaven, I know that Grandma is there with Grandpa, together again.

Grandma was the glue that held our family together. Things aren't the same since Grandma died, and sometimes I miss the fun and love and closeness our family shared while she was around. The holidays just aren't the same now.

I guess that's why I'm writing this. I want to remind myself of those days. Now it's up to me to create my own history. I hope mine is as rich as my Grandma's.