My Grandma is 96 and still gets a kick out of a good story.

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

My Grandma is 96 and still gets a kick out of a good story.

Gram got her driver’s license back in the days when all you had to do was ask for one, but she never drove, except for a brief couple of months back in the early 70s.

When I moved within 15 miles of her in 1979, I volunteered often to take her and grandpa to the doctor, for an excursion to the Kafe Stuga or shopping.

One thing you have to know about Gram is that once she’s made a decision, it’s never her "final answer." She has changed stockings or earrings in the middle of Christmas pictures, while we all waited with grins plastered to our faces.

In 1989, a year after grandpa died, Gram called and said she wanted to do the family a favor and make her funeral preparations in advance. She asked if I would help by taking her to see a funeral director.

It didn’t top my list of things to do, but I understood Gram’s need to get this task accomplished.

We arranged a time and a day. I picked her up and took her to the ‘funeral home.’ I’m sure there’s some sort of history involved in that appellation, I felt anything but at home. I tried not to succumb to the heebie jeebies.

Gram never leaves anything to chance so arrangements were made down to the music, who would sing and who would play the piano and what the obituary would say. I was pretty much the chauffeur and the quiet was getting to me. I yawned as Gram put the finishing touches on the ‘plans.’

"Are we done now, Gram?" I hoped out loud.

"Just one more thing. I have to pick out the casket," she said with that SHOPPING look in her eye.

Oh, no. I knew what that meant. One of her shopping expeditions ended with me spending 30 minutes finding the earrings she had taken off when she tried on a new pair. I had to snatch them from a woman who’d pick them off the sale shelf where Gram had left them.

Back at the funeral home, the two of us were ushered into the ‘coffin room,’ and left alone to make the decision. It was cold in there.

How do you choose a coffin? I assumed, silly though it may be, that it would be by durability, material, workmanship, price, the look, any or all of the above.

"What kind do you want, Gram?" I said, shivering, expecting to find occupants tucked in amongst the wares. At least that would account for me being able to see my breath.

It was standing room only, and we edged our way between the smooth mauve and powder blue, buffed metal caskets packed in like dominoes. We paused briefly at a handsome wood constructed cabinet.

"That’s nice," Gram said.

Success I thought.

"Very nice for a man," she said, dashing my hopes of an early exit.

I repeated, "What do you want, Gram? Metal? Wood? Here! This one’s reasonable." I tried steering her to the burnished gray model.

"That’s very plain," she said and headed toward a light blue one.

"Oh! This is nice," She said ogling the pale blue velvet lining. "What do you think, Gussie?"

After 30 minutes in the cooler, I assured her she couldn’t have made a better selection.

Gram informed the director of her choice, and we were off. I turned the heater in the car to max warmth.

"Well, Gram, are you glad that’s over?" I asked.

Then came the response I dreaded.

"I don’t know if I have anything to wear that would match that blue," she said, in her most serious voice.

"You can buy something to match, Gram." I said, knowing the advice fell on deaf ears.

The business of planning your funeral can be very sobering. Gram said little on the way home and I prayed it wasn’t buyer’s remorse. A few days later she called.

"Gussie, I have an appointment to look at coffins. I just couldn’t find anything that would match that blue."

We returned two weeks later, the dear funeral director acted as if this was an everyday occurrence.

It’s been 13 years since Gram chose the pink version of the original blue box. As long as the dress doesn’t fall apart waiting for Gram to wear it, I can breathe a sigh of relief that shopping trip is over.