In Memory of Grandma Diane

Grandma Diane never wanted me to take photos of her, so here's a photo of her in her teens

In memory 

When I think of Grandma Diane, I think of cheddar-sour-cream potato chips. 

She kept a bag of these Ruffles under the kitchen counter, and would break them out whenever we visited. Along with mini-Snickers or milkshakes or turkey sandwiches or whatever other food she had on hand. I'd sit at the kitchen counter on a stool and eat cheddar-sour-cream Ruffles and listen to her talk. 

Grandpa Jim and Grandma Diane

Sometimes she'd show me family photos, all out of order. Pictures of Zach as a toddler in diapers; Grandma Diane, Grandpa Jim, middle-school Gary and teenaged Aunt Linda on a snowy day in the 80s; the beach house they owned in Seaside; Gary's 30th birthday party with nine-year-old Zach and seven-year-old Ivy flanking him; Grandma Diane as a teenager with dark lipstick looking at the camera with a sultry glint in her eye; the flower garden of her neighbors in the 70s; faded photos from the 40s of her Klingsporn relatives back in Germany, standing stiffly in Nazi uniforms. Sometimes she'd play me videos on YouTube: Gunhild Carling performing New Orleans jazz; Jean Valjean of Les Miserables singing "Bring Him Home" in Hebrew. She was always in the middle of sorting and clearing out her vast collections of trinkets and memorabilia: stacks of People magazines, Flying Nun comic books, Day of the Dead figurines playing guitars, and aliens— so many aliens. She absolutely loved anything alien-related. She loved aliens and ice cream and celebrity gossip. She was a bit sheepish about it, but she loved them.

Grandma Diane liked me because I listened to her stories. She would talk about her mother and the house they owned in the 60s and the water drainage problem in her basement and her favorite dog and the letters their relatives in Germany sent them in the depression after WWII, and I'd sit and eat cheddar-sour-cream chips and say, That's so cool. And then what happened? Tell me more. I sat and listened and soaked it all in, because I missed my own grandparents, and I wanted to cling to every moment. She offered me milkshakes and family stories, and I accepted both.

She's gone now, and I must find a way to move forward after a decade of being her grandchild. As I deal with the wake of grief after her and Grandma Kathy's death, I reflect that I'm grateful for a second chance to be a grandchild through Zach's family. I'm grateful for the chips and the photos and the stories.

Rest in peace.

~~~