novembre

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the strongest lady

in heaven there is no beer
that's why we drink it here
and when we're gone from here
all our friends will be drinking all our beer.
(--my family's drinking song; i can't spell the correct german translation)



my great-grandmother died yesterday in merton, wisconsin.

she held on until my father and grandfather arrived at the hospital from california; they walked into her room, grandpa kissed her on the forehead, she opened her eyes for the first time in two days and then died. she was one hundred and three.

(it's just like the matriarch of our family to wait for the men to catch up)

in her will she left me pictures of herself as a young woman; laura the flapper, the fringed, coifed lipsticked twentysomething up to her knees in lakewater in a country that wasn't hers.

i asked for these pictures the last time i saw her, which was during aunt sandy's wedding in 1997 and we sat around in her stale living room watching the miss america pageant, making fun of the pepto bismol dresses, placing nickel bets on who would win.
she took me for about fifty cents.

she was a spritely nintey-eight back then, which would explain why, after the ceremony, she beat us all back to the farm, first in line for the beer truck.

3:48 pm - 10.06.02

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