My step-grandmother, Mary, passed away on July 4th several years ago. Ever the demanding matron, it figured that even she would manage to outshine a national holiday. Not to sound cynical, but I had prepared myself for her passing ever since she had a stroke a few months earlier. She was definitely missed by all. Well, perhaps less by her greedy daughter. And definitely not so much by my mother, whom Mary never forgave for marrying my step-father.
Mary was definitely a force to be reckoned with. She was critical and had a sharp tongue, yet somehow managed to always get our strange family together during the holidays. Despite her coarse ways, I couldn’t help but love and slightly admire her, especially for her fierce family loyalty. Though she looked down on my mother for being African American, she was outraged to learn that my mother-in-law had made a racist remark towards me. “I’m never inviting that woman over for Christmas dinner!” she said vehemently. Even my mother couldn’t help but smile at that.
There was a huge family turn out for her funeral. Relatives I never knew existed flew in from odd named cities all over the U.S. It was such a random grouping of family members that I knew we were bound for an interesting post-funeral reception.
Thankfully, the reception room consisted of many small tables as opposed to just one large one. I’m convinced it was because of this that everyone kept from each others throats. The unknown out-of-towners sat at one table. The crotchety better known family members sat at another. I was sitting with most of my immediate family. I guess we were supposed to be the eccentric table?
While waiting for the appetizers, my mom and I gossiped about the family members at the table next to us. My step-aunt Olivia had been upset the entire day, but it wasn’t because her mother had just passed away. Her son’s girlfriend had accompanied them and Olivia didn’t even try to hide her displeasure. Mom surmised that it was because his girlfriend was Jewish.
“At the funeral, I could have sworn that Olivia called her a kike under her breath,” my mom concluded.
“Like mother, like daughter,” I laughed.
Seated next to Olivia was my grandfather. He ended up at that table by default. There was no more room at our table and my mother was all too happy to “sacrifice” his presence. My mother’s relationship with her father had deteriorated after she learned some family secrets, still too sketchy for me to understand. Plus, he had a tendency to get drunk during dinner, pass out and then sing. Yes, sing. Once he serenaded my mother with a version of “Old Man River” for her birthday. In a restaurant.
Most of the meal went by without incident. Conversations were light and laughter filled, sometimes prompted by a funny story about Mary. One particular trait of hers was discussed by all and that was her hatred of children. While she didn’t mind her grandchildren, she refused to tolerate any sound made by a child in a public place. “Why can’t they just get that brat to shut up?” she’d complain. If the noise persisted, she’d actually yell out “Be quiet!” Only Mary could get away with yelling at an infant, we laughed.
Desert orders were being taken and I started to hear a voice rumbling from the table next to us. Guess my grandfather was waking up, I thought. Right on time as usual.
Not more than five minutes later, my step-father slammed his drink down on the table and shook my mother’s arm.
“Julie, he’s doing it again!” he exclaimed.
We all turned our attention to my grandfather. He was in a heated discussion with Olivia.
“Clinton was nothing but a philanderer …” she complained.
“Yet you still like Giuliani even after him and that woman…” my grandfather protested before being interrupted my mother.
“Daddy, what did I tell you? There’s no talking politics at dinner!” she chastised loudly. “Here, before you get into any more trouble, switch seats with me.”
As they switched chairs my husband leaned over to me, his eyes filled with laughter.
“What’s that all about?” he asked. “Why won’t your mom let your grandfather talk politics?”
“Trust me, it sounds silly, but it’s for the best,” I replied. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but one Christmas there was a big argument. All I overheard was ‘Clinton’ and ‘Bush’ and next thing I knew Olivia was screaming at Papa. After that, Mom made him promise never to mention politics while we were having dinner.”
He laughed.
“It’s actually pretty serious. Olivia and Papa haven’t talked again until now. It’s been years!” I emphasized. “It was a really bad idea to sit him next to her. We should have thought it out better.”
My husband wouldn’t stop laughing over that. The rest of the evening, I could hear him chuckle to himself and say “Sound the alarms! There’s talk of politics about!”
Since he was having such an amusing time, I can only assume he wanted to prompt more hilarity when he convinced my grandfather that it would be best to sing a song in dedication for Mary.
“She asked me to sing a Coon song once,” he remembered. “But I can’t think of any now. Should I sing ‘Old Man River’?”
“NO!” the entire table cried.
Despite the few small crises, the dinner turned out well. Still, everyone was grateful to retreat to their separate homes. As we waited to claim our coats from the hostess, a child started to cry from the other room.
“Ugh, can’t someone make that brat shut up?” I muttered unthinkingly. I was starting to feel the post-family dinner headache that I always get.
My step-father looked at me with wide eyes while my mother burst out laughing.
Mary was with us still.

