Grandma's Will

Everyone has secrets. It might be your mom, dad, best friend … or even your beloved Grandma.

As the first-born grandchild, I came to know at an early age that I was Grandma’s favorite, even though – as I grew older and wiser - I would never say that to my siblings or cousins. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, the neighbors - all the baby boomer generation has this unspoken law that you are to love your children and grandchildren equally.

They insisted it was fairness – but it was hogwash.

In our house, one could always hear a “Mom loves you more than me,” from one of my two younger brothers whenever they were told “no.” It began as soon as they could talk and know what they were talking about.

It seemed that, because I was the oldest, I got to do everything I wanted – but seriously, I seldom asked to do anything so that was never the case. Being the eldest came with certain rights and privileges. Or so Mom and dad had mentioned. And we all know that whatever our parents say is true. Right?

Wrong!

My brothers always did things and went places I never got to go when I was their age. For example: I never vacationed with mom and dad in Hawaii – I was too busy that summer taking an extra math class for college entrance; I never went on a class trip to Germany because when I was a junior in high school, my parents swore only rich folks allowed their kids on those trips; and I was never even allowed to play an instrument in the marching band, my parents insisting choir a better fit for a daughter!

Grandma’s house was only one place I loved to be. Grandma’s home was a three-story, grey house that was once a farmhouse, the old barn having been torn down in the forties and replaced by a four-bay cement block garage with high rafters and covered pits in the floor. There were gardens, flower beds, a bird bath, and a big old apple tree that shaded the graves of all our pets.

Grandma never scoffed or laughed at my budding imagination.

I often thought that was because of the birds.

Grandma had a way of calling out to the birds and sounding just like them. She did bird calls to sparrows, blue jays, crows, and cardinals – any kind of bird in her yard. Each warbling sound from her lips was unique to that type of bird.

Except one.

The only feathered friend she had conversations with was a big-faced, big-eyed barn owl that I assumed never found a new place to perch after the garage replaced the old barn.

Days spent at Grandma’s house were the best times of my life. I love everything about my Grandma, especially her frank, tell-it-like-it-is approach to everything.

As adults, we all know Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy are not real. These were manipulation tactics used by our baby-boomer parents to manipulate us kids to behave … to conform to whatever standards they set.

I must admit I love Grandma more than my mother or anyone else in my family. She was the one person I could count on for the truth.

I can still remember how she winked when my mom would mention going to bed early so Santa could come fill my stocking … how she rolled her eyes whenever I lost a tooth, as if to say, “you know the Tooth Fairy is really your mom, right?” … and the way she held her tummy tight in silent laughter whenever I said “okay” to tagging along with my younger brothers to the town’s annual Easter egg hunt.

Which was precisely why, when my Grandma – the angel of a woman who’d never said a negative thing about anybody, who’d been my rock, my comforter, my co-conspirator in whatever I thought up, and the one who was in my corner no matter what – passed away at the age of 106, I believed my parents when they whispered I was certain to be ‘well-remembered’ in her will.

So here I am, alongside all the family gathered for a meal after the funeral service, not really interested in getting any of Grandma’s ‘stuff,’ though if I were to dream of receiving anything from her, it would be her secret talent for bird whistling.

My mother, looking a bit envious, drew me aside just as the family began taking their seats in the room where the lawyer was about to read the will.

“Everyone knows you’ll probably receive the biggest and best of whatever it is my mother has to give,” she whispered in my ear.

I sat. I listened as the lawyer gave a brief introduction of what was to happen.

Everyone was anxiously quiet, waiting.

The lawyer pulled out an ivory-colored envelope from the file in his hand and walked straight towards me.

I reached out, taking the envelope from his outstretched hand, noticing all the eyeballs riveted on me and the envelope. No drama here, right?

The family was waiting like vultures, to hear what Grandma had bequeathed to me. I could only imagine what they were thinking.

As I sat, fingering the dog-eared, ivory-colored packet, thick with folded papers I heard my mother clear her throat, as if to say, “Hurry up!”

The envelope was thin and yellow; Grandma must have written this part of her will years ago.

I could imagine what they were wondering. Was it a check for an inordinate amount of money, complete with a list on how to spend it? Was it the deed to her house and lands – which any one of them would love to own? Or was it a list of her antique trinkets and treasures?

I opened the envelope.

The first paper simply had “READ PAGE ONE, ALOUD” typed in the center of the page.

I read aloud what was on page one: “I hereby, at my death, do decree my savings account balance of $72,000 to my granddaughter, Amelia May Jones. May you spend it wisely yet with an attitude of daring.”

I saw an array of smirks, frowns, and rolled eyes. Not that I blamed them. The money they all were hoping for just went to me.

The next page, Page Two, stated that I was – again – to read aloud what was on the paper: “Although the summer cottage and garage will belong to Amelia, the main house, all my antiques and treasures, as well as my other real estate holdings I do hereby bequeath to those family members my lawyer, Mr. Kingston, will now address.”

Everyone quickly turned their attention from me to Mr. Kingston, who cleared his throat and began to read the remainder of Grandma’s will.

Happy that the family’s eyes were off me and now on the lawyer, I turned to the last page in my envelope on which was the instruction: “PRIVATE – DO NOT SHARE THIS INFORMATION.”

That last page was breathtaking, with beautifully ornate fleur de leis drawings penned around the border, a small paragraph centered on the page.

My gaze swept over Grandma’s calligraphy, which was beautiful, and tears came to my eyes as I realized she meant it just for me.

“To you, my darling and most favored grandchild, the one person in our family I hold most dear to my heart, I give what I could not nor would not give to any other – my true legacy.”

Another elegant fleur de leis swept the width of the page.

“I am the GRIM REAPER. I pass this title, and all associated with it, to you. If you have any questions or concerns, simply talk to the barn owl as I always did. He will assist you with what, where, when, why, and especially who.

Funny; I always thought Grandma talked to that owl because she had no cat.