Oma

 This is about my 4^th attempt with writing this. I tell myself, “Don’t make it too long, don’t worry about writing down everything you find meaningful” then, 5 pages in, I’ve realized I’ve done the very thing I was avoiding.

The issue is, I have 38 years’ worth of memories and stories with Oma. She was my mom’s mom, and she was very much apart of a lot of our lives. It’s hard to narrow down and share just a few meaningful moments onto a couple of pages.

I described Opa as our foundation, our main structure of support, but if Opa is the foundation, the walls, and roof; Oma was everything that filled the house, and I mean that both metaphorically and literally. For anyone who was apart of cleaning out their house would tell you, she filled up every corner with something meaningful and sentimental. She’s the hand-made curtains, the antique cuckoo clocks, the patterned wallpaper, the sconces, the shelves filled with worldly souvenirs, the many collections of rosemaled plates and boxes. She’s the pewter candlesticks, the photo albums, the quilts, and the Canada geese in the yard. She’s the gnomes, the Christmas ornaments, rocking chairs, and the spinning wheel in the corner. Cleaning out their house was sifting through everything she held dear. Pulling things off shelves and out of closets was symbolic of the dismantling of the lives we knew with both Opa and Oma.

We have been without Opa for about 5 years now, and Oma didn’t take long to show cognitive decline not too far after his passing. It was clear she needed more help a couple years ago and the family made the decision to move her out of her house. That first step was incredibly difficult to witness. She loved her home and all her things. It broke my heart to know she had to leave all she had left of a life she loved.

Her mind continued to decline. Names escaped her, timelines were off sometimes by fifty years or more. She didn’t even remember that Opa had died. She didn’t remember that her parents had died. It was incredibly sad to watch her fade away. Her memories, her stories, they were everything to her, and to have those erased from her seemed particularly cruel.

All those years of her telling stories, sharing memories, it was up to us now to remember and carry her stories along with us. Her doll that was saved from the fire, the painting of her “fairy tree” out her childhood window, the house miniatures her mother made; my mom knew everything she had told her. My mom was her only daughter, and seeing as Oma had great pride in the female lineage of the family, she entrusted her with making sure certain items were to be handed down to certain people. That those who inherited said items knew the meaning behind it, and felt the weight of its importance.

She rosemaled a plate for me years ago with this very sentiment. “Life affords no greater responsibility, no greater privilege, than the raising of the next generation.” This was painted along the border, and on the back, she listed the female lineage of the family. Lines of names that ended not with my name, but the names of my two girls. In a culture that focuses on male successors and names, this was particularly special to me. This honored the women that I came from, the women my girls came from. The women who filled the house.

I could talk about all the hundreds of details I associate with Oma, the holidays, the geese, the paintings, the jewelry, but that would turn into a very long chapter book. We, the family, all know those things, but what are the things that are just mine? My memories. My moments with Oma, just a few…

Oma made me several dolls when I was little. One doll has a heart painted over her heart with “I love you Megan” written around it. Even the doll I would carry around as a child had her touch. She hand-painted the face on “Baby baby,” and I would bring her over for touch ups over the years.

She gave my first jewelry. A tiny gold ring. Rings are still by far my favorite piece of jewelry, and she would take me every birthday to go shopping for new pieces. When I lost a polished coal necklace I got as a souvenir from a trip, she gave me a carved coal sculpture she had to replace it. A little old lady, and she sits on my shelf today.

She gave me my first coffee mug. She picked it up at the old house in downtown Plano where she taught her rosemaling classes. On it, printed in Swedish, it reads “God who holds the children, dear; Look after me, who is so little.” I would sit with it and have “coffee” with her and my mom.

Once I reached the age where I could handle it by myself, she would put me in charge of decorating the little Christmas tree in the family room on Thanksgiving. While others watched the game or played football in the front yard, I got to put up the first tree of Christmas. I understand it was meant as an activity to pass time, for I didn’t have anyone to play with; but it always felt like an important job, and I looked forward to it every year.

I was the only granddaughter for many years, surrounded by boys, both brothers and cousins. I was desperate for a sister. I had my hopes up when my mom was having her 5^th baby. We did not know if the baby was going to be a girl or a boy until it was born. I awoke to my Oma late at night, she told me mom was going to have the baby soon, and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital to meet the baby. I, of course, said yes and rushed to get ready. My brothers stayed home with Opa and just Oma and I went to the hospital. We shared peanut m&m’s while we passed time in the waiting room. My dad finally appeared with 2 tiny footprints on shoulder of the scrub top he was wearing. When I was told she was a girl, I was overjoyed. I finally had my sister. Oma was so excited for me. My mom only had brothers, and Oma had only a brother, but Oma’s mom had many sisters. Oma would tell me how special it was to have a sister. That story she would tell for years and years. In the early stages of her dementia, she would recite this story every time she saw me. I found it odd she was recalling it so frequently, but as the disease progressed and erased this memory from her, I would have given almost anything to hear her relive those moments again.

She would come over to our house every week the first year I was homeschooled. She taught me Texas history. She would write out quizzes and tests. Not doing well in front of a teacher was one thing, but in front of Oma? Not an option. Luckily, she passed me with no hesitation.

I wore her necklace on my wedding day, the same necklace she wore on her wedding day. She gave me a hand-made handkerchief to tuck into my bouquet as well. I plan to loan that to my girls on their wedding days in the future.

She would call me from the bookstore while shopping for birthday presents for my kids. She would describe different books and read a page or two, asking to help find the best one. When Addy fell in love with geese and wanted a “goose party,” Oma brought over several geese to borrow. We even put party hats on them.

All these moments were remembered by both of us at one point. The disease took big parts of Oma away from us all. We could not sit and talk with her. I know she could not tell you my name, or how she knew me. Despite her mind blanking on these details, I could tell she felt love between us, and that’s all that mattered.

When I created the plans for my house, she told me her mother did the same thing after their house burned down. She looked at the papers and expressed how beautiful it was all going to be. I had hopes at that point, that we would find a way to bring her out to the house once it was done. As the months went by, I knew she would never be able to see it.

Oma would never make it to my house. Instead, I filled it with her things. All the rosemaling, the crocheted blankets, the quilts, the paintings, the candlesticks, her rocking chair…she now fills the corners of my house.

While the painting of her “fairy tree” resides at my mom’s house, I look out my window at a different tree. I don’t imagine fairies dancing beneath it, but I do have her geese under it. We call it “the goose tree” and the lanterns hanging from the branches glow in the evenings.

I hope she knows how much we have missed her these couple years, I hope she knows my mom visited her almost every single day, and I, every few weeks. I hope she sees all the love and care we have put into everything, and how much I wish things didn’t end the way they did. I can't say for certain what happens when we die, but I hope she was met by Opa, her mom, and her dad. I hope dozens of dogs and pets ran up to greet her. I hope all her pain and confusion vanished and all her memories were restored. I hope she can rest peacefully and know we will be her story tellers now, her memory keepers.

When searching through pictures and home movies for images and clips for her memorial slideshow, I feared it would be too hard. I was wrong. As I watched her talk and laugh again, I was surprised on how comforting it was to see her as herself again. Somehow, we had to lose Oma completely for her to return to us the way we knew her.

Until we meet again, I will watch the geese fly over head and think of you. A Christmas eve will not pass where we won't wish you were here. We will cuddle up with your quilts on the couch, and I will use some of your favorite mugs for my coffee.

We love you Oma, and we will carry you with us always.