Youth is for Crazy

As most of my close friends know my grandmother Jean (Blackie) Mattimore passed away last May. Blackie was a really important person in my life, and not just because I could sign her chits at the Stamford Yacht Club. Every summer, as a kid I went to Connecticut and stayed with Blackie, who hated being called grandma, or anything of that nature. We played Candyland and she taught me to play bridge and gin rummy. As I got older, she always let me know when I was "looking slim" and we stated cocktailing together. I will never forget the summer I was 19, I visited, on my own, and she ordered me a drink. I knew then that I had never known her, but that I was desperate to make up for lost time. From then on I cherished our time together. I worked shifts with Blackie at the hospital cafe, went to lady luncheons, garden clubs, yacht club events and meet all the right Stamford society. I had a relationship with her that is entirely unlike anything else. Something special, I think grandparents are designed like that. Those summers, I was never happier than talking political shop with my Grandmother and her friends.

And then the day came that Hazel called, from Blackie's, with the news. The funeral was intense, and I didn't keep it together during my rendition of Bye Bye Blackbird. Afterwards I spent months working and partying, thinking that I had come to terms with everything. I was grateful for my memories of her. I will never forget the summer I interviewed Blackie for my thesis on wedding symbolism. But there was regret, a sensation that I didn't know everything there was to know. I feared that everything as it stands these days would belittle her legacy, her investments, which I respected. But Blackie was smart she guarded against insecurity. Hedged her bets. No doubt being a product of the Depression informed her sensibilities. And having been a widow for so long, she had to protect her advantages completely alone. Death usually brings a mess in its wake, and despite Blackie's preparations there was stuff, clutter, and confusion. There were also things I knew I wanted, that gave me a sense of her. Last week was the first time I'd been back to CT since the funeral. And my opportunity to decide what of the things left I wanted. I mean the mallard lamps were a no brainer, and the folk art painting, but I had no idea that I would end up with so much furniture. That was where the marathon road trip idea came from.
Paul told me he would come with, and I appreciated it even though I knew he had ulterior motives. And there were other complications. So we hopped in the rental truck, a Ford F-150, white, which we named Kim after our favorite "real" housewife from Atlanta, and we hit the road. I don't think I will ever forget driving from NY to Toronto and back in 48 hours, and then hopping on a plane to fly home. Not very Al Gore, but what crazy memories. By the time Paul and I got to Binghamton on Sunday night we were delirious, laughing and joking and singing bad pop songs. But that one night only Toronto party was epic and will not soon be forgotten.