We lost our Nannie last week. It was sudden and heartbreaking and enormous. She was like a mother to me and it nearly swallowed me whole. I could sit here and write down the details of her death...but I know she'd rather me share with you the details of her life.She loved the two of you so fully. You brought her SO MUCH JOY. Every time we went to visit her (which was very often) she spent the entire visit telling me over and over again how GOOD my kids are. She didn't want me to forget. And she always wanted me to go home and remind Daddy too. You two were pure gold to her.
A few weeks ago we took her out to lunch at Panera and then to Jordan's for our annual Enchanted Village visit with her. We had so much fun looking at all the Christmas displays and lights. Then the two of you laced up your skates and hit indoor skating rink. Nannie and I sat right on the side, holding hands and laughing our hearts out the entire time. Avery made a friend and left Tyler in the dust, who spent the entire hour just trying to catch up with his sister...falling miserably over and over again. But then he'd bounce back up and take off once again. I've never heard Nannie laugh so hard...I was worried she would hurt herself. She kept telling me to check his tushie later for bruises.
It truly was a magical day. We were exhausted afterwards but bursting with joy. That's the Nannie I want you to remember. She didn't just live in the moment, she cherished it. And she cherished the two of you more than anything.Here is my eulogy I read at her funeral:
I have a box in my closet full of letters that my Nannie has written to me over the years. It is my treasure box. All of my summers away at camp, off to college, teaching in Vermont -- I always looked forward to seeing her handwriting on an envelope in my mailbox. Her letters were full of advice, silly stories, warmth, praise and love…sometimes even a few dollars. She had a way of reaching me across the miles. She understood my homesickness, cheered on my successes and softened my heartaches. She always said exactly what I needed to hear. Every single one of her letters made me laugh out loud and simultaneously brought me to tears.
Today it is my turn to write a letter back to her.
I am so full of gratitude to have had you for the 38 years of my life. I am SO very grateful that my children have had you too. You have been such a gift to all of us. It is a rarity to be blessed with someone who totally gets you, who accepts you for exactly who you are and always expects the best from you. Any one of us could be writing this same letter to you. Your connection with each of us was so deep and so true. You made us each feel like the most important, cherished, beautiful and loved person on earth.
You taught us to be gracious and open. Your beach house was OUR beach house. We never had to ask permission to visit. We never had to ask to bring our friends. We were expected to. And you were always there in your bathing suit ready to welcome us -- and whatever crowd we brought along -- with open arms, a huge smile and plenty of chicken soup. You weren’t just our Nannie…you were everyone’s Nannie.
You taught us not to cry over spilled milk. One summer when Craig and I were kids, we were having a snack in the kitchen while you were out in the backyard hanging the laundry. I can’t remember the details but somehow we dropped a huge jug of apple juice and it shattered, covering your kitchen in juice and glass. Craig and I were horrified. We thought you were going to kill us. And then you walked in. And do you know what you said? “Oh well, let’s clean it up.” There was no yelling, no anger, not even the slightest hint of irritation. In the big scheme of life it was NO BIG DEAL. You taught us that no spills, no matter how big, ever are.
You taught us to respect our elders. Your best friends at the beach — the beach bums — became our best friends every summer as well. Singing songs, telling stories, laughing wildly, having our daily party at the beach -- these are some of my sweetest childhood memories. You taught us to be affectionate and warm, to embrace bonds regardless of age, to cherish every single friendship and to hold them all dear. You taught us to love.
You taught us to stop and smell the roses -- or in your case to stop and collect the sea glass. You taught us to be young at heart, always. You cherished the little moments. From feeding the ducks to making pies in the sand to bowling and bingo -- you found joy in all of it. There aren’t many 90-year-olds who will get into the ocean and jump the waves with their great-grandchildren. But you never missed an opportunity. You were never in a rush, never got bored, never too eager to move on to the next thing without fully enjoying the thing you were right smack in the middle of. Your joy was infectious. You taught us to live.
You taught us that happiness doesn’t come from things; it comes from each other. You never ever complained about what you didn’t have, and you took SO MUCH pride in all that you did — your crooked little house, your family, your dignity. You taught us to hold our heads up high and be grateful…always.
You taught us to say I’m sorry. As much as you loved and adored each of us, you were never hesitant to be completely honest -- at times utterly and brutally honest. If we did something wrong, we knew we’d be hearing about it from you. And we knew we had to fix it. You were tough. And you made each of us better because of it.
You taught us the yiddish word “bashert”, in other words “meant to be”. I remember coming to you as a teenager with a broken heart. You told me -- promised me -- that when I met the right person I’d know. I didn’t understand then what you meant. Until I did. When I introduced Phil to you, you knew too. It was “bashert”. It was so important to you that each of us found that right one, whoever he or she may be, as long as we were happy. And we all did. Because you taught us exactly what to look for. You and Papa Bob lived an extraordinary love story — 68 years of commitment, affection and
devotion. It was your gift to us. And we treasure it.
You taught us that family is everything. Your summer Sunday BBQs, your Chinatown dinners, your Jewish Christmas, your kugel, brisket and canadels. These are the things that bond us. One of the first things I ever said to Phil was, “my family’s crazy...and I love them anyway.” This is what you taught us. You embraced the crazy and found joy in it. You loved each of us whole-heartedly and remarkably, despite the crazy...you loved us BECAUSE of the crazy. You told us every day exactly where we belonged. You taught us who we are.
You have been our shoulder to cry on, our listening ear and our favorite person to laugh with. You brought us toys when we were home sick with the chicken pox, you cheered us on as we graduated from college, you raised the roof with us on our wedding days and you held our babies and sang to them when they were only days old. You never missed one single moment. You have been our best friend, our hardest critic and our biggest fan. You have been our rock. Our beloved Nannie.
Today it is our turn to put you to rest. You have lived a long, FULL, loving, beautiful life. Consider this note to you your bedtime story. Consider all of us here today your goodnight kiss. Consider our memories of you a forever soundtrack of laughter. This is not the end for you. You are larger than life. You will be there every time our children have a spill, every time we hold the door for the little old lady behind us, every time we do someone wrong and know it, every time we find a piece of seaglass in the sand. You won't miss a thing.
May you find comfort in being with your dear husband again and resting in peace together. May you know that your bright spirit is embedded deep into each of us and that you are leaving us all with your beautiful legacy of love. Sleep tight Nannie. Sweet dreams.
Love,
Andra
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