I wrote the following on a plane, on the evening of December 16. I read it to my grandmother on the morning of December 17. She died at high noon on December 18.
My mother suggested we publish it in her funeral program. I'm publishing it here, too, so that those of you who could not attend can know her a little better.
*
I asked my mother who would
give your eulogy, and she said you felt the same way about them that Granddaddy
did. [He loathed them.]
I’m disappointed, because I always expected to
give your eulogy. But just because I won’t read it in a church doesn’t mean I
can’t write it. And, also, when have you shied away from being the center of
attention?!
Should I start with the fact that you never met
a stranger? For most people, this is a cliché; for you, it was a way of life.
For a woman whose work was unpaid, you were a master networker. I’ve never
known anyone as good at making everyone around her feel welcomed, at ease, as
if they were talking to an old friend. This trait served you and your family
very well at places like Disney World, where you’d connect with a person early
in his career and watch him rise while he elevated your status, too.
Wait. I guess if I was giving a real eulogy I’d
start with myself. (I also like being the center of attention.)
Good afternoon, all. Thank you for being here. I’m
Emmy Murray, neé Emily Watts Remington. I am, among lesser titles, the
first-born grandchild of Eileen and Buster. As an infant, I lived with them: my
grandmother told my mother, who was living in Tampa with my father when I was
born, that if she wasn’t going to sleep, she was going to not-sleep in her own
home; consequently, the first six weeks of my life inhabited 3320 Riverview
Boulevard, the house my grandparents bought in 1963. I bet nearly all of you
have been there.
We moved from Tampa when I was three years old,
and my grandparents and I never lived in the same state again, but that didn’t
stop us from spending as much time together as we could. We visited at least 10
states together and three other countries—including France, where my
grandfather flew me from when he was 83 years old!
From the time that I was seven years old until
the time that I was 22 years old, my brother and I joined my grandparents in
Disney World during the month of December. Even as an adult, with the exception
of the COVID years, I saw my grandparents quarterly.
I could go on about myself, but this isn’t about
me.
I’m trying to prove that my sample size of time
spent with her was statistically significant… although, I’d argue that any
amount of time spent with her was significant, because she made everyone feel
so good. She made everyone feel significant. She taught me to laugh
unapologetically, to find joy wherever I could, and to treat everyone as a
friend… or, if they weren’t nice or acted like they were better than me, to
treat them as an equal.
It's hard to love a jerk of a neighbor as
yourself, but she was good at it. She was good at finding some good in
everyone, even if it was just “she thinks she makes a decent pound cake.”
My grandmother believed in a lot of things. She
believed in tucked in shirts, well-fitted undergarments, and closed toe shoes.
With no disrespect to the Catholics in attendance, Eileen was the Patron Saint of
Pearls. She believed in lipstick at all times, ideally in a bright color. She
believed in having your hair out of your face. She believed in single earhole
piercings for women but not girls. She did not believe in tattoos. She believed
in Santa. She believed in the magic of the world around her—and she often was
that magic.
Christmas is your favorite time of year. I think
you are dying now because the thought of celebrating Christmas without your
groom is too much for your body or soul. Granddaddy wasn’t magical—he was
often, frankly, kind of a grump—but he allowed you to flourish. Granddaddy
allowed you to give yourself the Christmases you’d earned as a child but never
received, and then to give your children and grandchildren and
great-grandchildren the Christmases you’d wanted. Granddaddy allowed you to not
worry about expenses. Granddaddy allowed you to love as largely as you wanted.
And you love out loud.
You believe in a big God. You believe that Jesus
was the only begotten Son. You believe in sunshine and also in rain and
probably these things are the Holy Spirit. You believed in gratitude decades
before it was a buzz word. You believe in the beauty of simple things, like
butterflies and the ways rivers flow and kisses.
You believe in yourself: you’re one of the only
women I’ve ever known who did not question her own value. You know you are
enough.
Most importantly, at least to me, and I guess
we’re back to me now: you believe in me. You have encouraged me for my whole
life. When we clean out your home, I bet we find poems and stories I wrote when
I was my daughter’s age. I started a blog 10 years ago mostly to be able to
write to and for you. If and when I ever get around to writing the book you’ve
always believed I was destined to publish, your voice will be prodding me
along, discouraging the swear words you’ve never used and elevating love.
I will move forward. I will choose joy, just
like you did every day. And I will carry with me all of the days of my life the
unconditional love that you enveloped me in, the unconditional love you
sustained me with, the unconditional love I now have for my own spouse and
children.
For almost 43 years, I have been, among lesser
titles, Eileen Griffith's granddaughter. May it be known by my lipstick. May it
be known in my laugh. And may it especially be known in the way that I love.
