Good Morning, Starshine

My grandmother died six weeks before my eighth birthday.

It was a crisp, sunny winter day. Looking out the front window, I saw my Aunt Sis’ yellow Chevy Nova parked out front. It was then that I knew something was up. Back in my room with its red carpet and red and white wallpaper, my father told me that Gramma Roberts had died earlier that morning. I flung my arms around his waist and cried. I still remember the pink nightgown with its quilted top that I wore that morning.

My grandparents had moved into the upstairs flat from us when I was about four or five. They were both an integral part of our growing up. A child’s natural ally is the grandparent. She was that and so much more. Despite the fact that I was so young when she died, the memories, feelings and impressions that I have of her are too numerous to mention. And I choose to be selfish and keep most of them to myself so as not to dilute the memory.

At five, I had the bright idea that I wanted a bra. She was a good sport and went into the other room and brought out one of hers. I remember holding it up, probably a double E or something, white, with about 6 hooks or so. It was not what I had had in mind.

We watched the Miss America pageant on her black and white TV one night in bed. I was 5 or 6.

She shined my shoes with butter. They were really shiny until the dog started chasing me around and licking my shoes.

After swinging my lunchbox around one day, it fell (of course) and the thermos inside shattered (the insides were made of glass). I was terrified to tell my mother. So I went to my grandmother. Sitting in her lap, I told her what had happened and she told me not to worry. She bought me a new one.

During the last year of her life, when she was sick, she was in and out of the hospital. One time, my Uncle Slick snuck the five of us up the back staircase of the hospital to see her. She was in the bed and she reached out for my youngest brother, Mark who was a baby at the time. He was strange and started crying. I said to him, “Mark, it’s Gramma Roberts.” I couldn't understand how he could be afraid of her.

In the fall of 1973, an ambulance brought her home from the hospital to die. Her bed was brought out to the living room of their flat. I’d go up to visit and show her my school papers, but she was no longer the Gramma that I knew. I’d be sent back downstairs and as I'd stand on the upstairs landing, their door, which was always open, would close behind me.

I have tangible things of hers. Her beautiful mahogany cedar chest. The afghan on my bed which she crocheted almost 40 years ago. The boys know that Gramma Aggie made that blanket. The little glass bird in my cabinet. Originally a perfume bottle from Avon, she emptied the perfume and put colored water in it and gave it to me.

Like me, she was low to the ground, wide and loved her food. As I grew up without her, I wanted to be like her, for her capacity to love and forgive knew no bounds. For many years after her death, family members cried openly over her without embarrassment.

Our paths crossed briefly, yet the mark she left on my life was profound, long lasting and far reaching. After her death, I thought about her all the time and dreamt of her regularly well into my twenties. As I near towards a fourth decade without her, I let those memories of her, glorious in detail, impressions and feelings of love, comfort me. I’ll think of her and memories come flooding back and the years in between melt away like snow in the spring.

I told my mother once that every time I heard the song, ‘Good Morning, Starshine,’ my grandmother came to mind. My mother said it was probably because that summer of 1970? 1971? when we were all out at the cottage in Sunset Bay that song was played on the radio all the time. Funny, but I heard it here on the radio in Ireland the other day. I hadn’t heard it in years. I’ve been dreaming of her a lot lately as my marriage dissolves around me. After all this time, she’s still close by.

Till we meet again.

Agnes O’Hara Roberts
March 9, 1907- December 2, 1973

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

From Oh breathe not his Name
Thomas Moore