Naomi Rosenberg

So… Advance apologies for this self indulgent, self-pitying wallowing post but I need to get this out. No one reads this blog anyway, so sod it.

My grandma died yesterday. I’m empty. Just one big blank. At the moment I’m feeling like I need to be around people and not wallow, but then when I do, I feel bad that I’m out ‘having a good time’ but also bad that I’m somehow bringing the party vibe down with everyone seemingly tip-toeing around me… It’s a lovely mixture of guilts, I tell thee!

Of course, the usual sensible stuff is running thru my head. She was incredibly old (94), had an amazing life, was very well cared for, and during her last ten days she was in and out of consciousness and on a morphine drip. So while she wasn’t in any pain, that state of limbo can’t have been nice – for us as well as for her. For the last four years, she’s also been on her own and has missed my Grandpa dearly. I don’t think she ever got over her grief and being so frail made her terribly frustrated after being so active.

But then a big part of me feels so utterly shocked and I just want her back. It’s such a mighty blow. Every year for the last ten or years The Family have said “this will be her last Christmas” and I’ve always disagreed as she was so strong. Last week I was still holding out hope that she’d prove everyone wrong but we were already making funeral plans. It’s a Jewish thing.

In fact, went shopping a few months ago and bought this lovely black lace dress. I took it to the counter, and the girl mentioned how pretty it was. “Yes,” I said, “Plus it doubles up as a funeral dress.” She looked at me as if I’d killed a kitten. But being Jewish, (and also having old rellies) you have to be constantly ready for a funeral, as they have to be buried asap. Whenever I buy anything black I always see if I could wear it to a funeral. Maybe I’m just morbid, but I’m sure it’s the fast-burial, Jewish thing. I remember when my grandpa died, I had to go round the shops looking for a black suit. It was the most horrible experience and one I vowed not to repeat again. I promised myself I’d always have something ready just in case.

At the moment I’m doing my best to get my head down and not wallow. But then I think maybe that’s what’s expected. But then I don’t want to be annoying and no fun. A miserable me pisses even *me* off! I’m also trying my hardest to remember things about her and our time together…

I remember sitting on her bed at Rodean, the beautiful house where my brother and I would spend most of our school holidays (or so it felt), looking through her jewelery with her. Usually, before one of their glittering parties, I’d sit there, watching her putting on her make-up and think she was the most glamorous creature I’d ever seen. The wardrobes in her five-bedroom house are still stuffed to the brim with clothes, shoes, fur coats and stoles. So that’s where I get it from… We’d often sneak into the laundry room or pantry, where she’d find us and gently berate us with her sing-song voice: “Little fin-gers!”

She was the ultimate matriarch – a formidable woman whose bark was far worse than her bite! Originally from New York, she wouldn’t take any crap and would tell you with as little cushioning as possible. But she was also extremely warm, nurturing and kind, with a sharp sense of humour and an wonderfully naughty bitchy streak! She was always beautifully dressed, her hair and nails immaculate, her clothes co-ordinated with her stunning jewels. She loved ginger and couldn’t go into Lakeland without buying some gadget for the kitchen she didn’t need. My knowledge of her early years are hazy. I know she graduated with a degree in engineering, and during the war helped design the Whittle Jet. She was hugely artistic, and her sculptures are scattered around the home at Rodean.

One family tradition that still exists today is one that my brother and I started. On the way to Rodean, you drive up a hill, and the village below drops down, slowly out of view. As it does, it bears an uncanny resemblance to Toy Town, and so it would start with my brother and I, leaning up against the back seats, chanting “Toy Town, Toy Town!” as it disappeared from view. Then, as we rounded the corner to Rodean Crescent, my dad would beep the horn “beep biddy beep beep, beep beeeeeep” and that would signal our next chant: “Grandma, Grandpa!” We’d carry on chanting until they came to the front door, where a couple of big hugs and kisses and “haven’t you growns” would await.

When it came to go home, she’d always give my brother and me a bag of Hula Hoops (supermarket own brand) for the journey home whenever we left. We’d sit at the back of the car, stick them on our fingers like rings and nibble them off. My mum isn’t a fan of junk food and so holidays at Rodean were the only time my brother and I had food treats. Being Jewish, we weren’t allowed pork in the house. Of course, at Rodean, it was pork sausages and bacon for breakfast most mornings. The smell of bacon still reminds me of those days…