“The best gift you can give someone is a well-lived life of your own.” Tig Notaro said that in her memoir. The part where she writes about her mom who had just passed.
You know when you read a thing and it’s written just for you? That’s how I feel about that quote from Tig. She was talking to me, about my grandmother, Betty. Now there is a woman who has lived well. Let me tell you about her.
She’s a firecracker. They invented that word for her. There’s no woman as high-spirited as her. I dare you to find me one. She screams “Yoo hoo!” from across a busy public street to get your attention. If you ignore her, she’ll do it again - but this time louder - until acknowledgement is made. Blend into a crowd, she will not. Nor shall you.
She speaks her mind. She said of someone’s yard recently, “It looks like the wrath of God. Someone please teach them to edge their lawn.” An old-guard Republican and capital ‘C’ Christian woman. She said after the 2016 election, “This Trump thing… I know you’re not thrilled, but won’t it at least be fun to see such a glamorous family in the white house?” She wasn’t wrong. I still can’t stop staring at photos of Ivanka.
She wears all the colors at once. Deeply saturated bright tones like fuschia. Cobalt blue. Lime green. She once wore a hot pink peacoat. And don’t get me started on her crisply ironed white shirts with the popped collars. All the aunts did it for a while, but I’m pretty sure she’s the O.G. She has that dark tan skin that looks great in a neon. Especially in the summer. She appreciates a good tan like most do a fine wine. “Look at those beautiful tan legs of yours! Not one scar,” she mused at me once. I’ve never felt prettier.
You see, the tan is proof of her Puerto Rican heritage. She also loves the Spanish language, which she incorporates into conversation often:
“I’m abuela. La Matriarca.”
“You are not unfriendly, Lindsey, just tímida!”
“Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.”
“Let’s take Segundo for a walk.”
Segundo was her dog - her second Beagle. (Hence the name.) Then there was O Danny Boy - her saddest dog. (Hence the name.) She’d sing the song to him when he was particularly low. When she bursts into song like this, all you can do is sit it out and wait. Act like everything’s normal. Now there’s Cosmo - a yapping guy who loves her massive field of cosmos. (Hence the name.) With him, she gets on all fours and yaps right back. My dad and I saw this recently and exchanged skeptical glances. “You think I’m losing my wits, do you? ‘Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech.’ That’s William Shakespeare. Memorized in 9th grade. Losing MY mind? Ha!” I think that’s what they call a mic drop.
It’s true - there may be no sharper mind than hers. In constant pursuit of education - a college student in the 1940s, later through experiences like world travel, and countless groups: writer’s group, investment group, bible study group. I think she might be a feminist. Please don’t tell her I said that - I’m not sure she’d appreciate the name-calling. Recently, she confessed something to me: “My husband preferred I wear classic jewelry - gold, delicate. So that’s what I did. But when he died I decided to start dressing the way I want. That’s why I wear all of these colors and big ornate necklaces.” She also told me recently that the best decade of her life was in her 70s. I repeat this quote whenever people complain of their age. Except the ones in their 80s. That’d just be cruel. I wish I could hurry up and turn 70 already.
As you might have guessed by now, I hang on to her every word. She scolded me several years ago. “You have to tell people when you lose a loved one! Otherwise, how can anyone help you, Lindsey?” My husband’s grandfather, Leonard, had recently died. He hung on to every one of Leonard’s words, too. I told no one. I didn’t know I was supposed to. And yet, she somehow still showed up to the service with a casserole, a card, and a hug.
Anyway, I guess that’s what I’m here to do today. My grandma, Betty Carmen Dargis, died at the close of el Dia de los Muertos last week. Age 97. A friend told me this sheepishly. “You probably don’t care about this, but it has huge cultural significance!” I replied, “I think this would have meant the world to her.” It’s possible this was her plan all along. I don’t know. The one thing I know for sure is that she gave me a well-lived life of her own. My hope is to do even a fraction of the same.
If you’re so inclined, Betty published her novel, Out of the Shadows, nearly three years ago at age 95. It’s a historical romance set during the Spanish-American war, and it’s based in truth about her family. I’d love it if you’d read it and tell me what you think. You can buy it here. Expect many Spanish words peppered throughout.