I am notorious in my family for making Grandma visit the Cat House.
The Cat House (as we called it… it’s real name is Pet Pride Cat Shelter) was literally a house full of rescued cats. I wasn’t allowed to have a pet growing up and I loved cats, so the Cat House was one of my happy places. (Yes, maybe I was a strange child.)
Twice a year my grandparents flew from the East Coast to visit us in Los Angeles, and my siblings and I each got a Day Off from school to spend one-on-one time with them. It was a highlight of my childhood. We would go on an outing of my choice, have lunch at Nagilla Pizza, rent a movie (from an actual movie rental store, that’s how old I am) and watch it in their hotel room. Just being in a hotel room was super fancy when I was a kid!
Sometimes Grandma got lucky, and I requested a trip to the Miniature Museum or Children’s Book World. But other times I asked to visit the Cat House. My aunts affirm that taking me to the Cat House was Grandma’s ultimate show of love because she hated cats. They gave her the creeps.
But I didn’t know that. She didn’t say a word, and neither did anyone else. She so much wanted me to enjoy my Day Off that she took me to the Cat House and, with a stiff upper lip and a smile that never faltered, walked around with me as I petted and fussed over all the pretty kitties.
Isn’t that an amazing Grandma??
Grandma was the epitome of graciousness. Classy, stylish, serene. Grandma never had a bad word to say about anyone. She showered her 3 daughters, 9 grandchildren, all their spouses, and numerous great-grandchildren with unlimited and unconditional love.
Grandma was married at age 19 to the love of her life, a love that grew stronger over the years. When my mom was growing up, Grandpa used to look at her with adoring eyes and say, “Isn’t she regal?” When we were growing up he would look at her with the same adoring eyes and say, “My bride.”
Grams and Grandpa were two of my greatest fans. Besides for thinking I was wonderful in every way, they were enthusiastic and encouraging about my artistic development. If they admired a drawing or painting I’d done I would give it to them. Not content to file it away in a drawer somewhere, they would get it framed and hang it on their wall. Even as a kid, I realized that having my art hanging in Grandma’s cool, elegant, just-so home was a great honor.
(Grandpa dubbed the drawing on top “The Mother-in-Law” and got a real kick out it. It had place of honor in their bedroom!)
When I would call to speak to them on the phone, Grandma would answer the phone like this: “Oh, hello Dena! Lou! Pick up the phone, it’s Dena!!” as if she’d been waiting to hear from me all day. No one made you feel more wanted and cherished than Grandma (unless it was Grandpa, of course, who was just as happy to hear my voice, which I know because he would say, “Dena! What a pleasure to hear your melodious voice!”)
At Grandma’s funeral last week, my brother said that she had mastered the art of living well. It’s such a simple phrase and yet it seems to sum up Grandma’s life. She lived well and did her best to make sure we lived well, too. In her quiet, gracious way she was always giving, and made our lives so much richer.
I love you and miss you, Grams.
