I sincerely wanted to get up and read this at the funeral, but I couldn't. I froze. I am ashamed of not being brave enough to do it. I would have wanted my Dad and Mom to hear me get through this.
Hello, my name is Gregory, I am the son of Greg and Gail. One of Virginia's grandchildren. Along with Brian, I have the distinguished position of "Black Sheep" amongst the grandchildren.
Just a quick aside before I start. The other grandchildren and I had a conversation the other day, about whether or not to come up here and do this. About this very moment. I made a point about it being hard enough to get through this without everyone rattling off their own experience. "Storytime" I called it. I used the word torturous. I thought it might prolong an already difficult process for everyone. Everybody was just trying to just get to the other side of this thing, this terrible thing, why make it longer, more difficult? In hindsight, I am fairly certain that I was wrong. I think this process might be important. I think I was sad and scared, and as a result, my response was bitter, course, even mean. I realized that's not what Bestie would want. She would leave herself out of the equation entirely and want me to do it because I was sad and scared. That was, and is even now… her power. Maybe even more so now. She is still showing us not just how to act better, but how to be better.
Despite a day or so of practicing this in front of the dog, I have a hard time getting through it, so try to bear with me.
Virginia McCray. 1924-2020.
When I was a kid, I thought my grandmother's name was Bestemor. Bestie. I was not a particularly bright child. No one called my grandfather Bestefar, so her moniker seemed like a much more personal thing to me, an adult form of a nickname. Turns out, it was designation not so much given, but earned. A sobriquet reserved for only the greatest among us. The literal translation for those of you not well versed in Nordic culture is BEST mother. And that, she most certainly was.
Bestamor was born in Brooklyn, in the mid 20's. You could hear just a little New York in her voice every once in a while, even though by the time I was old enough to recognize it, she was a few decades removed. It was these small clues in her syntax that gave you hints to her nature, of being both incredibly wise, yet tough, resilient. A person not to be trifled with. She was mostly Carl Sagan, with just a pinch of Al Capone.
Although she has not lived in Agawam for a long time, her home there stands out the most in my mind. It was hard to walk around in there. Back then, I was both energetic and a klutz, twin bedfellows that made for terrible allies in such a grand and delicate atmosphere. I had to work hard not to break things. It was all glass and porcelain and had full sitting areas clearly not made to sit. Furniture embroidered with fabric that glimmered in the light. Beautiful things. She took such obvious care and craftmanship into these places, that it made me nervous to be there. Bestamor would be off in the kitchen somewhere making sure everyone not only had enough to eat, but had enough to take home. Enough for your neighbors. With her occupied, I was just this chubby dork Indiana Jones tiptoeing through those rooms, these caves of pearlescent treasures. To not break anything, I used to lay under her glass coffee table, with Maggie, her overweight Fox Terrier. I would grab some Ritz crackers from a stray cabinet when no one was looking, and get under there and look at Planet Bestemor from behind the safety of a sheet of glass, casually feeding the dog cracker bits so she'd stay and hang out with me. Even though Maggie existed mostly on the shrimp Bestemor made her, like me, she was never one to turn down a cracker.
While Bestamors presence commanded a certain amount of decorum and behavior, she often would act against that interest. My cousins and I, outright savages in almost all parts of our lives, would attempt to be calm and polite around her, a state of affairs that never lasted very long. Bestamor would protest of course, at the behest of her position as matriarch. Secretly though, she would be on the sidelines, starting small behavioral fires that would breathe even more life into what would become a full-on riot. She loved seeing us together in our natural state, a family of loud, crass, fun-loving maniacs, thundering through family events, leaving carnage, food, baby clothes, beer bottles, and pet hair in our collective wake.
I loved talking to Bestemor. In a quiet moment, when it was just you and her, that force field of decorum would drop for a few moments and you could make her cackle occasionally with a well-placed sniper shot of sarcasm. Sarcasm being my stock in trade; I would try and find those moments as often as I could. They were moments where her matriarch Bestemor title was pulled away for just a minute and she was just a person.... having a well deserved and long-awaited laugh. It was a good feeling as an adult, looking back at the kid version of me tiptoeing through those rooms, finding out that laugh, that beautiful laugh, was what real treasure was. I will keep those moments, crystal clear, in the museum of my mind for the rest of my life.
There are some things I think she would want me to mention. She raised four remarkable children, all great people, who have raised us, the grandchildren, from the lessons she provided. A lot of us are passing those lessons on to our own children, her great-grandchildren, many of whom have not reached the age where they could have appreciated a good Bestamor encouraged family riot, and I think they will be worse off for it.
I think, she would want me to mention her knitting, for which she has earned many awards and accolades, although she often talked about it like it was as common as washing dishes. It was a hobby she not only enjoyed but helped her connect with everyone around her, by making gifts of whatever particular thing she thought you needed, be it a scarf, socks, washcloth or oven mitt. She has knitted me a few different scarves, my favorite being a gray and navy blue one, which I am wearing as I write this. She explained that it gets really cold in Chicago, where I lived at the time, and that I would need it.
It did get cold....and I did need it.
She was smarter and more generous than a lot of us will ever be, and we can only hope to follow her example as close as we can. Bestemor gave with her whole heart, with no thought of reward, to the world around her, a trait more and more uncommon in the age we live in.
I know I speak for all of us when I say I will miss you dearly Bestie, and I will think of you often. I hope you'll get to see Mac soon and if you see Grandpa, give him a hug from me.