On Sept. 15, my grandmother, Lorraine Gersky Wheless, passed away at the age of 94.
One of my deepest-held beliefs is that we all have a tale to share with the world about our unique and important role in it. I always thought that my grandmother had several. Family lore has it that the devoutly Catholic Lorraine was raised from childhood in a rowdy Depression-era bar in Chicago’s historic Polish quarter. Later in life, she headed overseas in 1955 to be part of the Military Advisory Assistance Group Belgium-Luxembourg. There, she met and married my grandfather, Harvey. Their first child, my father, Glen, was born in Belgium two years after her arrival.
Those tumultuous and romantic years always seemed like experiences that deserved to be preserved as part of the Wheless family history. When I asked my grandmother over a decade ago if she would share more of her life story so that I could write about it, she laughed off the request, insisting that there wasn’t a story to tell.
For years, I was sure that my grandmother was wrong. But as I think back on the legacy she passed on to her five children, 10 grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren, I have come to agree. Time sloughed off the importance of those bigger details, and what really defined the grandmother I knew was the steady way she loved the people around her.
When I was a child, my family visited my grandparents in Clearwater, Florida, every year. Each time we pulled into the driveway at 1514 Oakadia Drive, Lorraine and Harvey were standing outside their small ranch house, waving as if they were welcoming royalty. We were immediately ushered into their dimly lit sitting room lined with photos of their family and peppered with questions about our travels and our lives.
All of my favorite memories of my grandmother took place in her galley kitchen while she prepared a hearty spread. Her food was never fancy, but it was decadent in a way that was foreign in my parents’ health-conscious household. If I were blindfolded, I could still find the large jar of Crisco in my grandmother’s pantry, and I loved to watch as she scooped out large dollops of the white, frosting-like substance into a large skillet to fry up hush puppies, onion rings, or cuts of fresh fish. Even with the recipe handy, no one has managed to replicate Lorraine’s macaroni and cheese. Either she hoarded some secret ingredient, or it was her love that brought it all to life.
I always had a healthy fear of my grandparents, mostly because of the stories my dad tells of his days as a hellion child, when his and his brother’s antics led to threats of “just wait ‘til your father gets home,” and not a small number of encounters with a well-worn belt.
But by the time we came to visit, life at Oakadia Drive had become quiet. My grandma would spend hours in the sitting room playing card games with me on the couch, queue up the original soundtrack of The Music Man on the record player, and occasionally give my sister and me lessons in Polish folk dance. My grandfather was mostly silent around the grandkids, but I will never forget the time he sat me down at the kitchen table shortly after I was accepted at the College of William & Mary to talk to me about his experience training to go into military service at Camp Peary, down the road from my alma mater.
My grandparents lived frugally. They ate generic, store-brand foods, shopped at thrift stores, stowed away water from the sink to prepare for drought advisories, and took meticulous care of their possessions. Because of this, they could help the people around them. When I was in high school, my grandparents gave me the money to travel to Europe with my German class because they didn’t want me to miss a valuable cultural experience. I am certain that I am not the only family member to benefit from the largesse they accomplished through self-sacrifice.
During her retirement, my grandparents also showed their generosity to the community through volunteering, but their greatest devotion was reserved for each other. I never once saw my grandfather make his own plate or clean a single dish. While he was alive, Harvey set away enough money to continue caring for all of Lorraine’s needs during the 17 years they spent apart after his death in 2009.
Last week, my grandparents were reunited.
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Twenty minutes before my uncle called her with the news, my cousin heard my grandmother call her name, echoed by my grandfather’s voice assuring her that he had his Lorraine back.
If I get the chance to see her again, I’ll tell Lorraine that she was right. The importance of a life is not tied to our achievements or the historical eras we live through. It’s affixed to the love we give that carries forward long after we pass on.