"Death is more universal than life; everyone dies, but not everyone really lives." A. sachs
It's an over-used quote but one that resonates with me.
My grandmother, Myrtle Irene Blain, born 20 June 1922, passed away yesterday afternoon (Mountain Standard Time; for me in the Netherlands at GMT+1, it was about 1 am). It does not come as a great surprise, and while it is still saddening, also eases some suffering: she was frequently uncomfortable or in pain, extremely tired, and somewhat depressed at times (although she maintained an incredibly stalwart facade and almost never complained). She was also, sadly, not always an outwardly kind woman; she could be cutting, even cruel, in her remarks about others, and dismissive or just outright mean to your face if she felt the occasion or situation justified it (or was just in a particularly bad mood); and she had an utter disregard for her health that left her sick, frail and unable to take care of herself even as she was resentful about no longer being able to live at home.
Nonetheless, she was also a source of genuine inspiration. This was a woman who married for the first time at 41, when not being married by your early 20s was a surefire path to spinsterdom. When she did, she chose the love of her life; someone with whom she could laugh, a kindred spirit in both work and play: my maternal grandfather. Often throughout her life she remarked on someone in the family having berated them for being “too silly”: her response was, “Why would you want to be with someone that you can’t be silly with?” She never had children of her own and I often wondered what difficulties arose for a fiercely independent, globe-trotting woman marrying a man with two feisty, witty, and keenly intelligent teenage daughters. She occasionally said that she’d have had children of her own if she could have (she had a hysterectomy at 28 due to cancer) but sometimes I wondered. “Grannie B” did not exemplify maternal caring and warmth (as did her husband’s first wife and my mom’s mom, Violet, from whom I get my middle name).
But sometimes warmth is not what’s needed: instead, she inspired with her independent spirit, liveliness, sharp tongue, and bottomless well of stories from her world travels. In many ways I think that may have been more useful to us, as her grandchildren; she often implored me to bring her photos of my travels to the Amazon, Central America, and Argentina; she encouraged each of us in our university studies and was a major financial support in helping us reach our personal academic goals; and nearer the end, she was strongly supportive of my move to Europe, even as we both knew my last visit was likely to be a “real” last this time. In a time when few women went to university she was one of the first female pharmacists in Calgary, where she lived much of her adult life; she was the first pharmacist in Alberta to openly sell condoms, which she would wrap in small paper bags so men could buy them discreetly; and yet she still maintained a fun and socially active life, never passing up an opportunity to party if one presented itself. Her dance card was always full, whether in her hometown of Lomond, Alberta, or on a cruiseship to Hawaii or with her girlfriends traveling across Europe. Furthermore, she was a talented artist, covering myriad boxes, stepstools and other furniture with elaborate designs (“toll” painting); filling canvases (now coveted by her grandchildren); and passing on, throughout her life, her love of art and a wealth of supplies – paint, brushes, tear-off palettes, knives, media, canvases, instructional books, paper, pencils and charcoal, and so on. Many of these were given to me as I wandered between the enchanting vagaries of art and the heady academia of science, and I will always be deeply grateful for the endless supply of artistic materials, especially during my childhood and then later in life as a university student.
I could go on for pages: she was a devout garage sale junkie (woe were we upon having to clean out her house on Canmore Road, after 30 years of garage sale excursions!) who on most weekends, when she was able, could be found cruising the city with her cousin Clare, classified ads in hand, combing the latest finds. She was a silversmith, turning out stunning and unique pieces of jewelry set with gemstones from all parts of the world; talented with a crochet hook; an avid letter-writer, and vociferous proponent of the cursive arts; and a savvy investor in both stocks and real estate. Always well-dressed, she was a real lady of the 30s; a “character” in the truest sense of the word. She will be remembered fondly and earnestly; and I for one will do my best to emulate her finest qualities, learn from the others, and become someone who, like she did, has really lived.
