Elizabeth Faxon Augustine 1911 -- 2008

The phone rang at 10:30 last night, rarely a good sign. It was my father calling to say that his mother, my grandmother, died yesterday evening. She was living in a home for twelve elderly people, had gone to dinner last night, collapsed, was taken to her room, and died 15 minutes later.

Just earlier yesterday, he'd written an email that said in part "By now her brain is extremely leaky. She has things to say, but by the time she gets to the end of a sentence, she has forgotten what she started to talk about. She is very aware of this, and frustrated. Unable to keep her thoughts in order, she is running almost entirely on instinct, which works well for her, since her instincts are regal, mannerly and frank."

Granna was such a mixed experience. She was very smart, very funny, very talented, and very exasperating. She'd lived with one kidney since she was young -- I only found out about that when my cousin was studying to be a nephrologist. She smoked until about six months ago and drank martinis like they might be taken away from her (they were, but again, not until a few months ago). In later years, she developed a taste for her Leee-mahn (Limoncello, introduced by my father) and enjoyed an evening nip. Or two.

Granna dropped out of Oberlin to marry my grandfather who died a little less than 20 years ago. She suffered my grandfather's loss in silence, rarely letting on how much she missed him. And she admired other widows who didn't complain. She also survived the death of her middle son a few years ago, an event that I know pained her deeply but about which she did not speak.

In her younger days, she collected antiques before they became popular, kept a gorgeous house, canned loads of fruit and vegetables, many of which came out of my grandfather's garden. She was an excellent cook and baker and turned out biscuits, pies, cakes, and incredible meals, night after night. She told funny stories and loved her family, all of it, even when they aggravated her. She loved to play golf and bridge. She invested in the stock market even though my grandfather thought it a foolish pursuit. After he died, she got serious about it and did impressively well. She wasn't wealthy, but she did support herself with her gains nearly up to the end.

She not only survived two sequentially broken hips (one on her own, one when she was being neglected in rehab) but learned to walk again -- I got to witness her first few cane-free steps. She refused to move into assisted living because all the people there were old, so she lived at home until a year ago. In fact, she was totally against microwaves and thought them useless. However, when she was told that if she couldn't use a microwave, she wouldn't be able to stay in her home, she learned and in a hurry.

I know she loved me and was proud of me, but she had a mean streak a mile wide. Once, when my sister and I were introduced to one of Granna's friends in the grocery store, my sister (who was tiny at the time) said from her perch in the cart "She's MEAN." Granna thought this was so funny that she proudly told everyone she was "the mean grandmother." In fact, my father's note from yesterday started off with "Your mean grandma..."

She especially had it in for girls -- her granddaughters and her daughter-in-laws --and was so very cruel to all of us. I have so many wonderful memories and so many traumatic ones. She had a wide capacity for hateful behavior mixed with sweet love.

No matter how much I weighed, whether I was in good shape or not, she always told me I was fat. She could be passing the biscuits or inviting me to take a second piece of pie, but the message was always there. She also told me that I had obscenely huge ears. She hoped that when I grew older, I'd have them surgically pinned back. More recently, on the eve of a girl cousin's wedding, she went up to my aunt at the rehearsal dinner and said "Your girls (the bride and her maid of honor)... look... like... sssslllluuuttts." She was mean to our faces and bragged about us all behind our backs.

On the other hand, this is the woman who taught me to love cats -- "A house is not a home without a cat." I remember rubbing noses with her from the time I was a little girl into my adulthood. Because I was named for her and because I was the first granddaughter, I always felt a special connection with her. I remember going along on golf expeditions and sitting quietly in the cart, going to the farm stand to fill in what my grandfather hadn't grown, going to the hair salon. We had a lot of adventures together.


About ten years ago, she came to Boston for a visit. Her plane was horribly delayed but when she arrived nearly in the middle of the night, she was being pushed in a wheelchair, looking like a queen on a moveable throne. On her lap was a basket filled with ripe peaches that she had carried with her from North Carolina. She could walk, just not long distances, and we had a fun visit together. We went to a special folk art exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts, which we both loved. And we stayed up very late putting together a jigsaw puzzle. She took occasional cigarette breaks on the back porch. After a short weekend, back she went. I marvelled at her stamina.

She lived in a condo to which she could bring animals when she moved in, but she was not allowed to acquire new animals. A few years ago the rules changed, and she was accompanied to the humane society to select a cat. She found a fine specimen, Blackie. She told me on the phone that when they brought him home and released him from his cage, he put his tail up, and "walked around like the Keeeng of Peruuu."


Her passing has left me churned up as I think through the memories, both bitter and sweet. She loved us all. She simultaneously drove us away while gathering us close around her.