May 14, 2007

Grandma’s Quintessentially American Life

If the size of the crowd in the hospital room during your final hours is a measure of your life’s worth, my grandmother could have paid off the national debt. Of course, the Irish have a tendency to multiply, but all that proves is that the woman who was born to be a matriarch picked the right starting genes.

M. Virginia O’Connell Krause Pierce left us on Saturday at the age of 89, surrounded by family who traveled from near and far to see her one last time. She built us. She protected us. We weren’t sure we were ready for life without her, so we squeezed every minute we could out of her.

Her life was quintessentially American, not because it was always triumphant, but because it was a series of challenges and victories whose only rewards often came in the form of the love of those who shared them.

My grandma was born in 1918. A depression-era youth and a war bride, she raised a growing family while my grandfather was in Europe helping to defeat the Nazis and the Fascists. She was never supposed to know where my grandpa was, but in their letters back and forth, he managed to clue her in with code words that only they understood. While he fought, she shared quarters with her sister – also a war bride and young mother – and they did the best they could to keep their heads above water until their husbands returned.

Once my grandfather returned, they endured various moves as his career progressed, coped with the loss of his job amid scurrilous accusations, and the necessity of his starting a new career in his late 40s.

Just as life seemed to become idyllic with their six children in their house on Potawatomi Blvd. in Royal Oak, Michigan, my grandfather was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s Disease. He was told he had two years. He scoffed and promised my 13-year-old aunt he would see her graduate high school. He did. And college. And he escorted her down the aisle at her wedding – although he did so from his wheelchair.

And at this point in her life, my grandmother became a full-time amateur nurse. Much to the dismay of my fiercely independent grandfather, she developed an amazing ability to lift him. She gave up her job at Bill Williams Photography Studio because Grandpa needed her full-time. Day and night. The duty became increasingly intense until we lost him in 1982.

It was time for him to go. But not her. Romance would soon blossom – and a second marriage that would bring her seven happy years – followed by nearly two decades of watching grandchildren grow up and marry, great-grandchildren appear and rewards present themselves, even if the rewards were only in the form of unending love from those who owed everything to her.

She never got rich. She never had it easy. She never really grasped the brass ring.

She didn’t care. The adoring presence of six children, 21 grandchildren and 17 great- grandchildren stamped her life a success. And she knew it. One of my aunts observed as she took her last breaths that she never said an unkind word about anyone. I thought to myself, “People always say that about someone who is dying.” Then I thought, “But in this case it’s actually true.”

In America you can spend your life pursuing wealth, power and prominence. Good luck to you if that’s what you do. I really hope you succeed.

You can also spend it creating a culture of love within the circle of those closest to you. If you choose that path, you might have to keep at it when storm clouds swirl and disappointments besiege you. That’s no excuse for bailing. You have to keep loving. That’s your lot in life. Grandma proved it.

The pursuit of love alone. A waste of opportunity in capitalist America? Hardly! For her, it was an investment in a market that protected principal and delivered consistent return.