Last night, a 98-year old woman passed away in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Her name was Anna Kraft and she lived in Lancaster County her whole long life. She trained as a teacher and taught for one year before stopping to have children — 7 in all, 4 girls and 3 boys. Her husband was a high school vice principal and avid gardner who was active in his community, and who passed away in the 1980s. She had never learned to drive. She was beloved by her family, and enjoyed good health well into her 90s.
She was my Grandma Kraft, my maternal grandmother, my last living blood link to that generation. And she was the embodiment of grandmotherhood. She was selfless, caring, never angry, gently doting, and, in my childhood, usually baking pies.
Here are some memories of my Grandma Kraft, in rough chronological order: I remember going to her house in Lancaster, the house where my mother and her 6 siblings grew up, and playing Monopoly on the dining room table as Grandma bustled around the kitchen, perpetually in motion. I remember staying at her house once when my parents went away and taking the bus with her to shop at the Lancaster Central Market. I remember doing cartwheels for her in a park at a family reunion. I remember her lemon meringue pie and her deviled eggs. I remember her hugging people at her husband’s funeral, her eyes red and wet. I remember her every Christmas, doggedly handing out envelopes of cash to protesting children and grandchildren.
I remember visiting her when she moved into her retirement home and bringing her flowers, and her saying “Why’d you go and do that?” (this seemed to be a standard response whenever someone splurged on her). I remember sitting next to her at a party in the function room of a seafood restaurant, and her pointing past the fish and potatoes to the parsley garnish and saying “That’s the healthiest thing on this plate.” I remember talking to her soon after my wedding last year, which she was unable to attend, and her saying “You’ll have to get used to your new name now” (a seemingly simple and practical statement with layers of wisdom underneath it).
Just this morning, before I learned that my Grandma had passed, I read about the plane crash in Montana that killed seven children and their parents. I was looking at a picture of some of the kids, all smiling and cute, and the tragedy of their deaths nearly moved me to tears. They were so young, and it was so sudden.
For a 98-year woman with declining health to gently pass away should be no cause for agonized grief. But there is some grief, there are a few tears, there is regret that I was unable to visit her as much as I should have. I comfort myself by remembering that death is a part of life, and we were blessed to have her with us as long as we did.
“We shall find peace. We shall hear angels,
we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.”
-Anton Chekhov
