Grubby

Yesterday Liza and I made the trip to Cincinnati for my great-aunt Clara's funeral. I didn't know Clara that well - I didn't know her at all until two years ago when my mother suggested I interview her for a project I was doing for my historical documentary class. Her stories of living through a hurricane that hit Rhode Island in the 1930's can be found on my web site here.

Clara was a strong and independent woman who loved to tell stories and play cards ... just like her sister, my grandmother. She had a full and happy life, and wasn't bothered by much mental or physical deterioration until this last year. We could all do a lot worse than to live (and die) like Clara Bohl Anness.

On a lighter note, I have never returned from a funeral more comprehensively grubby than I did yesterday. My stains, in order of appearance:

• Large blobs of ricecakes smeared all over both lapels of my wool winter coat
• Smears of mud from the cemetery scuffed on my black suede shoes
• "Chicken and Apples" baby food splattered on the front of my black wool sweater and on the crotch of my black dress pants
• Lemonade soaked into Liza's socks, overalls and sweater (from where she attempted to drink from her grandmother's cup)

Luckily I remembered to bring an extra outfit for Liza, so she was comfortable for the trip home. I, on the other hand, got to wander around for the rest of the day with food and mud all over myself. Note to self: Budget more money for the drycleaning budget next time I have to attend a funeral.

Liza was the life of the post-funeral luncheon, showing off her new waving skills and smiling at anyone who looked in her general direction. Her great-grandmother kept trying to ply her with food ("No, Grandma, she's not allowed to have chocolate yet. We'll come visit you this summer and you can give her as many brownies as you want then. Here, feed her the pineapple upside-down cake instead."), a sure sign that Grandma was feeling like her old self and has accepted Liza into the family. Most of the people at the funeral had attended the family reunion in Indiana this past summer, so there were plenty of comments about how much Liza has grown and how pretty she is. It was a strange throwback to when my cousins and I used to go to the reunions when we were kids and my cousin Karen told me that she hated going because so many people would come up and say, "Do you remember me? I was at your baptism!" I have this mental picture of Liza voicing the same complaint in a few years.