I played my first game of Scrabble with my grandmother. I must have been in first or second grade and just beginning to grasp the concepts of spelling and reading. The words I spelled were simple and elegant: The, is, zoo, we, cat. My brother, who is two years older and wiser than I am, spelled more elaborate words such as “home” and “banana.” My grandmother, who had quite the competitive spirit, spelled “bitch” and tallied her points as she asked us in her think Austrian accent, “You know what that means, right? It’s a lady dog.” She won that game. She always won.
There are hundreds of grandma stories too bawdy and hilarious to share here, including the time she told us all that monogamy was unnatural. The term feisty doesn’t do justice to her unique personality. A beautiful petite woman, most had no idea what they were getting into when they started a conversation with grandma.
She passed away last night at the age of 97, having lived one of the fullest lives I could ever imagine. She escaped Nazi Europe with my grandfather, started a new life in New York City, traveled, raised a family, and once tossed a wild owl out of her house by grabbing the talons and heaving it out the door. To say she’ll be missed is an understatement. And her recipe for matzo ball soup will forever be unmatched. Rest in peace, Grandma.
