When I got the call in 1994, long distance from my mom while stationed on the island of Guam, I was crushed. Just a week before, my grandma had called me out of the blue for no reason. Just to say hello. And now my mom told me she was gone.
Jean Stanczyk, who I referred to as “Grandma from Tustin” where she lived, was my mom’s mom. She moved from Buffalo, NY to Tustin, CA in the mid-1960s along with her second husband and teenaged son from that marriage.
My brother and I spent quite a bit of time with her over the years as she served as our before and after school care.
From my earliest memories, it was clear that GFT thought the world of me and showered me with love all the time. This was perfect since GFT didn’t work, didn’t drive, or really do much of anything outside the house.
Her day was spent making breakfast for my grandpa, getting us down to the bus stop, preparing his lunch since he came home for lunch each day, and then engrossing herself all afternoon on a diet of soap operas. She would make dinner, make sure us kids didn’t kill each other or play with fire or electricity, and ensure we were ready for mom to pick us up. Then Grandpa would retire to the bedroom to watch TV, and she spent the rest of the night in her sitting room watching TV.
That was her routine. If I was around, I’d sit there with her and watch TV. Sometimes we would talk, but most of the time we would just watch together. Occasionally, she would pull an old purse out of the closet and hand me a $20. She called it her “mad money.” Her contributions to the world at large were nil, but in my mind, she was the kindest, most wonderful person on the planet.
So, when my mom told me she passed away from a heart attack, it was a gut punch. My heart was broken. It still is today.
About 12 years later, I was sitting at the Black Bear Saloon at the Hartford airport waiting for my flight to board when my mom called to tell me my dad’s mom, whom we referred to as “Grandma from West Los Angeles,” had passed away. She had cancer, likely from a lifetime of heavy smoking.
Consuelo Gonzales was one of eight sisters whose father immigrated from Mexico and helped build the Santa Monica Pier. She married my grandfather, Donald Munro, a Scot who moved to California via Montana. He was a drunk and abused my father and his brother Brian. When my dad was 10, his father left the house for good, and left my dad with two black eyes.
She later married a guy from Mexico and moved her family down there for a time. She had a son with him but later left and returned to California. I suspect there is a lot more to this story, but nobody ever wanted to talk about it.
I didn’t know she was sick. In fact, I’d been out to see GFWLA six months earlier when I had a business trip to California, and she seemed fine. We went out to eat at a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place with the most amazing lengua tacos. And drank a few Coronas.
GFWLA wasn’t your typical grandma. First, she didn’t want to be referred to as “grandma,” at all, opting for the more youthful “Aunt Connie.” She dove an orange 1965 Mustang. Once, she crashed said Mustang in an alcohol-related hit and run. She laid low at our house in Orange County for a couple of months while my dad had her car fixed.
GFWLA was certainly not touchy-feely, I think she resented GFT (whom she saw at all holidays since our families were within driving distance) because I was closer to her.
For a time, GFWLA moved in with us and I got to know her better. She was very artistic and an avid reader.
Also, the best cook! She stayed in my room and each night we would both read Reader’s Digest before bed.
She was a painter, oil and watercolor. Since I was a modeler, most evenings we would do crafts together. Often, she would show me some painting techniques and even let me use her oil paints once. I painted a background for my fish aquarium.
Aside from that, I always felt my brother and I were more of an obligation for her. Maybe it’s because we were sometimes a pain in the ass. Once, while my brother and I were buckled in the back seat of her Mustang, we were rear-ended by a car while making a left turn. The force snapped us forward and back, the momentum causing GFWLA’s wig to fly off her head into the back seat. We couldn’t stop laughing and she kept yelling at us to shut up, not realizing her wig was gone. The sight of her plastered-down hair made us laugh even more.
So, when I hung up the call in the Black Bear Saloon, I took a sip of my JD and processed the news.
Honestly, I didn’t really feel anything. Nothing like I did for GFT. I didn’t go back to California for the funeral. I’ve never seen her grave.
But just this past year or so, maybe as I rediscovered art, I’m realizing the profound effect GFWLA had on the parts of life I’m experiencing now. When I do a pastel piece, I can feel her there. When decorating pottery with underglaze, I can hear her voice telling me how to blend the colors.
My love of writing comes from my love of reading. Something I may never have enjoyed had it not been for GFWLA. I wish she was around now so I could show her my work. And cook for her.
In a tale of two grandmas, I had the best of both worlds.
GFT showed me unconditional love from 1967 to 1994. She cared for me emotionally during the years I needed it most. I feel it as strong today as I did then.
GFWLA, unbeknownst to me, prepared me for this important phase of life. As I transition from one career into whatever is next, I know the time spent with her is about to be realized and appreciated, maybe for the first time.
She is caring for my soul, just when I need it most. I think she helped me find it.
What legacy are you leaving, intentionally or otherwise?
How will people feel about you years after you’re gone?
Is your legacy to be discovered now or years in the future?