My Grandma Keipp

My Grandma Keipp had the strength of a bull and showed it in many ways. She bore nine children and lost several more through miscarriage and early death. She put up with an abusive, alcoholic husband who never said thank you for her delicious cooking but, instead, would burp, giving her the acknowledgement she needed to know that it was good. She wore housedresses and aprons and, if not in her slippers in the evening, would wear black, solid-heeled shoes, with nylons that she rolled around her knees.

She went back to work at age 60 so that she could help raise her 16-year old daughter's illegitimate child. She walked the mile to and from work, saving the 10 cents one-way bus fare to the bank building where she cleaned offices and rest rooms, so that she could buy new carpet for her living room. When her daughter couldn't decide whether to keep her child or give her up for adoption, it was Grandma Keipp who insisted that they keep the baby and that she would help raise it. In 1945, a staunch Catholic from Germany would have it no other way.

My grandmother planted flowers and vegetables in her massive backyard in Mansfield and ran up and down the stairs to the basement (without railings) well into her 70's. There, she ran clothes through the ringer washer, stockpiled homestyle canned goods of all kinds, especially pickles, cucumbers and sauerkraut and secured a private niche way in the back where she kept a small bottle of whiskey.

I remember visiting my grandmother in Phoenix in 1980 when just a few weeks before I had left my ex-husband in Florida and was contemplating divorce. Sitting on the porch, looking at the clouds drift by, one day she said, "Are you still married?" I said that I was but had left my husband several weeks before. I told her I was thinking of getting a divorce. Her expression didn't change, she simply paused a few seconds and then asked, "Why?" I knew she didn't want...or need...to hear the details of my failed marriage so I went straight to the chase and said, "Because I wasn't happy, Grandma." Still expressionless, she said nothing for a long, long minute. I could see her mind working, deciphering what I had said, a puzzle to her stoic nature. Finally, she shook her head and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth..."Not happy? I've never heard of such a thing." The subject was not brought up again.

In 1984, my Grandma Keipp died of a stroke at age 98 while on a road trip with my mother in her RV in Chula Vista. We buried her in Mansfield, in St. Peter's Church, where she attended mass every Sunday for nearly 60 years and where my mother and I were both baptized. While waiting for the service to begin, my Aunt Mag told me that Grandma loved me very much and that I was very special to her. This wasn't earthshaking news, I was fortunate enough to be able to spend my formative years with her but somehow hearing it from my aunt, who doesn't lean in the direction of compliments very often, was very special.

Back in 1994 I visited Mansfield and one gloriously beautiful October afternoon I made my way to the Mansfield Cemetery. It took a while to find my grandparents' tombstones and when I did I sat and had a "talk," especially with my grandmother. I brought her up-to-date on my life, that I hadn't remarried nor had children, that I lived in Boston and had a great job. The late afternoon winds tossed the dying multi-colored leaves all over and sent me scrambling for my sweater in the car. I felt a connection with her then and many times since I have felt her presence, especially when I'm sad or need guidance. I'm lucky, I know, to have had her in my life. I can't wait to see her again.