Helen on the terrace of Finca de Los Arcos in San Lorenzo, Puerto Rico: June 2018. A picture taken by my sister-in-law, Kaila Thorn. They were eating pineapple.
I'm sure many will be lovingly writing about "grandma" in the weeks to come, since arguable Helen Geisler was a pan-continental grandmother and surrogate grandmother to scores of grandchildren and great-grandchildren by blood, marriage, or voluntary mutual association and affection. Sitting in her white chair at her house in Titusville, Florida, the masses would come and do homage to a matriarch whose charm and charisma were unquestioned, and whose hospitality was unmatched.
My first meeting with Helen was on one of those occasions; an Easter Sunday weeks after Travis and I met, when I was first ushered into her presence. It was love at first sight from my perspective-- in no small part due to the fact that she had cunningly used a bowl of chocolate rabbits to try to discern my age.
I never called Helen "grandma," a point she once observed. "You know Robert-- you're the only person who doesn't call me 'grandma.'" When I asked her if that bothered her, she replied. "No. It's nice for a change."
We were sitting in her kitchen having coffee that morning; Cheryl and Travis having gone to work at the auction. It was a setting we would repeat many times over throughout the course of our several years of acquaintance. Whether it was over coffee in the kitchen where she regaled me with stories about her excellent married life (sex and all) or the sexual peccadilloes of people at NASA in the the 1960s, or family history and lore, or the times when she had been less than charming to her husbands in the past, or her profound sense of loss at loosing both her husbands and a son; or thrift and antique shopping ("If you buy one more vase Helen, Cheryl will have both of our heads") I think (or at least I hope) my not calling her "grandma" gave Helen some license to discuss things that were on her mind candidly with someone who was both in and out of the family in a unique way.
She was a shrewd lady who knew the power and influence of her charm. "But Robert said..." became both a trope and a tool in later years for all parties concerned. When she came to Puerto Rico for her 90th birthday (which ended up being on her 91st birthday) she charmed the whole mountain. After executing her "hike" to the upper pasture at Finca de Los Arcos, a stream of well-wishers honked and shouted at her in appreciation of both her age and her vitality. From that day forward, no one on our mountain (to include Chipe the Moyette's dog) every forgot her or failed to ask for her and send good wishes.
Helen and I hadn't seen one another for over a year when she passed, but we usually spoke once a week. I had a reoccurring appointment on my phone to call her on Wednesdays and I tried very hard not to miss it. During her last few weeks I tried to call several times a day.
"Please don't forget me," she said on one of our last calls.
As if.
Rest well my dear friend. I will miss our visits, our coffees, our shopping and our laughs more than you will ever know.
Comments