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How I Will Remember Lily
Welcome. I am so happy to see you! I know Lily would be happy to see you too, but we are here because she is not. It’s hard to summarize 64 years of knowing someone, but I will try. I also want to say that being the youngest person in our family is a lot like being asked to play a piccolo solo after the Michigan State marching band has come through, so I asked to go first.
Some years ago, the night before the funeral of our dear cousin Geoffrey, his wife made a very moving speech. She said that the next day at the funeral she would probably cry and she wanted us all to know that we could cry too. So I want you to know that I will probably cry while reading what I wrote and that it’s ok for you to cry too.
One of the last times that I saw Lily, and knowing I might not see her again: I leaned down and whispered: “I miss you.” I miss the Lily we all knew years ago and I forgive the Lily she became as a result of her illness, almost the mirror image of who she was before. It wasn’t her fault. I say, as she used to say, “all is forgiven.” In this time of sadness, isn’t it a mercy that our minds look back to the good things, the good times. Here is how I will remember her.
You can’t talk about Lily without talking about Newmie. They were a team. Lily was in love with Newmie with a deep connection which lasted her entire life. One of the last words she spoke was his name. As our family friend Vera Melamed said: “Lily was very lucky in love and they had a long and beautiful marriage.” They shared great adventures, they did all sorts of things to keep our family together. She always said that she and Newmie were from Minnesota, despite all the years that they spent living in Pennsylvania. That meant a lot to her: she thought people were nicer in Minnesota and she always felt she and Newmie belonged to that place.
She was playful, almost childlike. Looking back, she was the only mother I knew who often skipped or tap danced, while walking me to school, or just randomly in the house. Cousin Myra said recently: “Lily cracked me up: she was sheer joy for me. I never got tired of hearing stories about Grandma chasing Aunt Lil around the dining room table!” Lily was the president and sometimes, the only member, of what she called the “humor club.” The humor club did not ever convene or have events of any kind. It was her way of appreciating people who were funny. The young members, I was at times among them, were often bounced out of the club, if we got too serious or sad. One day, I remember, being admitted to the club in the morning, only to be out by lunch time.
She could be so surprising. When we were little, I can only remember her singing one song she called: “Rose in Falfoon.” And, by the way, that was both the title and the only words to the song. It had four lines. This was the best she could do with the singing. I was recently reminded, by Alexandra and Debbie, that she also had one entitled and entirely consisting of “Happy Birthday Mr. Frog, Thanks for the Mud and the Dirt.” But that one didn’t exist when I was little. Just a few years ago, she learned and then sang her own version of a much longer song from her youth. I saw her sing it in front of a large social gathering in Florida, accompanied by a friend playing the violin. I wish you could have seen that with me and Newmie!
She had a green thumb that allowed her to pick a small piece of an exotic plant in a place like Hawaii, bring it home, plant it, and grow it into something improbably huge and beautiful. For many years, whenever I came home to visit, she would take me on a personal tour of the latest flowers in bloom at the house, express regrets about the ones that had opened before I got there, that I missed out on seeing, and then we often would walk across the field to our friends, the Avayous, to see the flowers there.
What I’ve come to realize, is that the flowers were an accomplishment, not just something she liked to do. She said we must always have something that we’ve done ourselves that we could be proud of. I wish I could have acknowledged that more. In fact, I have several plants in my own garden, among them an unusual species of wild lilies, some deep purple columbine, and large leaf hostas, which came from her garden. I hope she realized that the inspiration for painting portraits of flowers and growing them myself came, at least in part, from her.
Here’s a side note about those wild lilies: they propagate by seeds and can quickly take over your garden. I have given them to people all over my town including one of my neighbors. She told me that recently, she gave some of the wild Lily seeds to her daughter who lives in Minneapolis. Her daughter planted them and now they are growing all over Minneapolis too. A nice full circle for the wild lilies.
Lily had many opinions and gave advice about life and the world. When I was little, she told me that it was ok to be different, but I couldn’t expect to be accepted. When I was still in elementary school she told me I should get a job when I grew up: “staying home is so boring, Wendy. Have a career.” She also said: “the work of the world, is done by people who don’t feel well.” Very true. I find uses in every day conversation for her phrase “move your blanket,” which, referred to what people did on beaches when finding their blankets too close to someone they didn’t like. However, the phrase has near universal implications. Best of all, after she met Stu for the first time, she said: “get him, Wendy, he’s the one.”
She was intense and loved intensely. She loved the grandchildren dearly but didn’t want to be called grandmother. She insisted that they call her by her name. She never wanted to be stereotyped, but wanted to be seen as unique. The people she most admired were the ones who had what she called “generosity of spirit.” She identified with troubled young people and provided affection and support to several who remained friends of our family for many years.
She was most creative in the nickname department, a way of showing love in a kind of shorthand. My favorite for me was: “Lula Bushbean.” I wonder where that came from. Then, there were the brownies: Lily made the best brownies in the world and they were always waiting for us, especially Stu, when we came to visit. She froze them and to this day, I prefer my brownies frozen. Anna told me that she likes her brownies frozen too.
I want to leave you with a recurring memory that I have of Lily. We are coming home to 509, Stu and I: David and Sarah are little. It is holiday time, but it is not yet the day for presents. We knock on the door, and we can hear her inside: she is so excited that we’ve made it, and she is so thrilled by the presents she is going to give us, that she has rushed to the door with the half wrapped gifts in her hands: she throws open the door and says: “Newmie: they’re here! They’re finally here. Look what I have for you: this is for you! I am so happy to see you!”
And these are the things I will always remember.
