An ode to my Grandmother
In an early period of my life, when I was easily influenced, my grandmother probably had the biggest impact on me—besides my favourite Nancy Meyers movie, The Parent Trap. She influenced my design aesthetic, my love of literature, and my appreciation for food. I suppose before I take you along to her hometown in my Norway travel journal, it’s important that I introduce you to her.
My Mormor, my mother’s mother. Due to her lifelong relationship with Du Maurier, her fingernails were stained yellow, and she loved her dry gin martinis. She’s the reason I can hold my liquor, but also the reason I’m so stubborn.
Growing up, I’d visit her in her beautiful brick duplex in Montreal. She would cook prawns in butter and tell me stories of the war, when her hometown of Arendal, Norway was occupied by Nazis. They were terrifying and beautiful, and even as a young girl I knew their value and always listened on the edge of my, teak three legged, seat. She taught me the joys of gently steaming artichokes and plucking their leaves off to eat with butter. All leftovers would be eaten cold with mayonnaise the next day. Incredibly Scandinavian of her.
Her home was filled with beautiful mid-century modern furniture, and her walls were always white. Only later did I realize how much her Norwegian heritage influenced her design choices. My Zaide’s images lined her walls, photos from his travels all over the world. The story of how they met seemed straight out of a romance novel.
As most family stories go, there are several interpretations. Here’s my favourite. My Mormor was living in a co-op in London while studying nursing, working a job, and entertaining a boyfriend on the side. The house had a room available, and the roommates found a man who sounded almost too perfect. They all wanted to schedule a time to meet him as a group, but he could never make it. He was a Jewish Canadian architect who had been traveling around Europe. Finally, one day he was available for a visit, but my grandmother worked. She trusted her roommates to make the right judgment. That night when she returned home, all the women were gushing about how handsome he was.
The next day, Inger met Norman. She fondly recalled that meeting during one of the many times I sat at her table eagerly digesting her stories. He walked into their home wearing grey flannel trousers and a white linen shirt. His travels to Italy and Greece had left his olive skin beautifully tanned, and she knew what she was feeling was love at first sight. She promptly dumped her boyfriend, and the rest is history.
I have incredibly rich memories of visiting my Mormor in Montreal as a child. I loved the rows of brick houses, and I remember the pink bubble gum she would buy me. She always had stacks of Hello! magazines next to her novels, and her very adult green gum, the kind I chew now, would be stuck into a crumpled corner of the page. She was always up on her royal gossip.
When I was eleven, she moved to Vancouver. It was a joy. She would pick me up from dance classes every Saturday, and the two of us would go for lunch. At home, she’d sit on the patio with her cigarette and a mug of Red Rose tea or gin. I would sit next to her and smoke my pretend cigarette, mimicking her movements with an empty hand. She wore her glamorous furs from her life back east and underneath, something chic like a lace trimmed nightgown or a giant T shirt with no pants. I really am like her.
She drove a zippy black Honda Civic she’d brought from Montreal. She was a wild driver, with a love for speed and for making every yellow light. Sometimes our lunch dates took us to the cafeteria at IKEA where we would load up our trays with all the delightful offerings. I don’t even remember if we were there for anything else, I don’t think so. On the way home, we’d often get lost.
Occasionally over lunch, she’d tell me how cute the waiter was and then turn up the charm. I wouldn’t realize until later that none of the men were interested in us, women. She taught me manners, class, the importance of charity and the joy of flirting without an end goal.
She spent her final months in a care home, and by the end she spoke a combination of English and Norwegian. She saw her family, loved ones who had long departed this world. She heard opera that no one else could hear. She joked about me and her nurse flirting. He was a professional and I was sixteen, so it was fictitious, but it created a lightheartedness in that dark moment—a skill that I would inherit from her.
One of her last wishes was to eat my chocolate cake while listening to classical music as she died. She stopped eating, and I never got to make her that cake. I found out she had died while I was babysitting my younger sister one night. You can’t control when you go or how you find out about your loved ones departing. I often listen to classical music and bake chocolate cakes, perhaps in her honour. I think of her every time I’m at IKEA.
She died when I was a teenager. I wish I’d had more time with her, especially while navigating adulthood, but as the eldest granddaughter, I got all I could.
I hope that when it’s my time to go, I get to see her once more. I hope she shows up and makes us strong gin martinis, since I never got to share one with her. We’ll smoke a cigarette together, and this time I’ll have one in hand. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy life to the fullest, I’ll glamourize the shit out of mundane moments, I’ll flirt a little with everyone I meet and I’ll go back to her hometown as often as I can.
Abundance of Olives 