Yaya

It has been over three weeks since we heard the news that my Yaya said goodbye to this human world. It's all been somewhat of a blur but the neat thing about have a grandmother that's 88 years old, is that she was a part of every big event (and most of the small ones) of my life so I have LOTS of memories. She influenced so much of who I am, it's like she's still here. I spoke at the funeral and thought I'd share it here...

Hello, I’m Kalley. I’m Artie’s first granddaughter. I called her Yaya. A couple weeks ago, when Yaya got really sick, I came across a bible verse that impressed upon me Yaya’s goodness. Proverbs 13:22 says, when a good man dies, he leaves an inheritance to his grandchildren. So what I’m about to tell you is a reflection on the inheritance Yaya has left to us.

Her presence is woven through my days, though I never technically lived in Meeker, where she lived for 65 years. Her quilts and needlepoint towels are displayed in my home, her sayings run through my mind when ever I see a needle, drop a fork, or spill salt, and you never sew on Sunday. The traditions carry on and we’re connected by her demeanor…genes pass through multiple generations.

Yaya was strong, independent, dependable, practical, and frugal. She was someone who could do anything she wanted. At a time when many women stayed at home, she was teaching, influencing lives of families not related to her. I think a lot of her demeanor stems from her childhood. Losing her Father at such a young age created a bond with her siblings that stressed the importance of family. I loved that she had two sisters to rely on after the death of my grandfather. They mean so much to each other…what a lovely value to pass on to all of us.

She was opinionated but not vocal. Her quiet demeanor didn’t convey the strength that lied within her. I think she was a trusted confidant to many of you as well. I know there were times that I disappointed her but I never felt unloved or unwanted in her presence. One time I was supposed to get her 14 lbs of spinach so that she could make pita for my wedding. I brought back 14 lbs of frozen spinach and she just pursed her lips and said “Oh Honey.” She still made the pita for me. I don’t know who got her the fresh spinach. I know she was proud of us but I never heard her brag about us to others. There was an expectation that you did your best because that’s what you do.

And if you didn’t have all that you needed, you just pushed on. She amazed me with her productivity. She was up before the sun had risen, cooking eggs and bacon or making oatmeal. We would gather around the table as we woke up and settle into a long morning of discussion, eating, and planning for the day. Sometimes it would spill over into watching game shows (Price is Right and Press your Luck) and then we would begin the day. Somehow Yaya was already dressed and ready and onto making lunch before I really woke up. Cooking was a big deal and we all consider Yaya a master at it. I wished I had been a more competent student.  I would try to learn how Yaya  made cinnamon rolls, stuffed peppers, stuffed tomatoes, chicken capama, pilaf, popcorn balls, baklava, butterscotch pie and other faves that no matter how hard I try, don’t turn out the same. I think she was proud of her talent and maybe sabotaged us all in learning how to replicate it. She never cooked with measurements, it was all on how it looked. So I would sit there and try to write down each ingredient with approximate measurements and she never made it the same way twice…I have multiple chicken capama recipes in my recipe box that are different but I know they all tasted the same when she made it. One time I made a butterscotch pie as she was making hers and we both took ours off the stove when the color looked about the same as a copper penny. Yaya gave me her approval that yes, it was the right color. Then later when we were serving them, she said something about how hers was exactly the right color and mine was close enough. Brady loved her pita and she made it for him whenever he wanted it, regardless of the occasion. How happy it made her to see us happy, gathered together.

She did teach me the importance of serving others, which I think is the best way to glorify God. 4th of July meant Yaya was baking pies and selling them at the Methodist picnic lunch. She was on many committees and used her talents to help others. And there was always a place at the table for visitors. She kept a clean house but it was cluttered with stuff, mementoes and other things that could be used again. There was a needlepoint saying in her dining room that mentioned the cobwebs and laundry that might still be here tomorrow but presence in the moment with company was more important and how true that is. I think all felt welcomed in her home and especially around her dinner table.

In July I told her how tough she always seemed to me. When she first moved to Meeker, she lived out on the ranch with no running water and sloped floors and I bet she was twice as productive as any housewife with modern conveniences. When she was little, they would make their own phyllo dough, spreading it out as thin as a sheet and laying it over the chairs and tables to dry. Surely she appreciated being able to buy phyllo dough in the grocery store without all that prep work but I’m sure she would never admit it. She dealt with the deaths of her parents and brothers, the loss of other family members and my grandfather with much dignity. She just had a way about her that made me want to be strong in her presence too. I don’t know that she thought of herself as tough. After I had talked to her about her toughness, I overheard her repeating it to my Mom, “Kalley thinks I’m tough.” I hope that brought her satisfaction. I want more than anything for her to know how much I aimed to be like her.

She never embraced technology, preferring handwritten notes and phone conversations. How I loved listening to her speak in Greek over the phone and I loved that she sent me letters about her childhood when I was in college. It’s like story books for me to pass on to my kids…they make great bedtime stories. Stories about feeding bum lambs and choosing fabric for dresses. I have memories of doing the same with my Yaya, picking fabric for quilts that she would inevitably leave a pin in, or car rides to junction to pick up tomatoes or peaches. She would play a version of tic tac toe with me and she always had a piece of gum. One time she told me not to stick my arm out the window or a donkey might bite it off…I didn’t trust donkeys after that. I would shell peas from her garden with her or husk corn. She would give us those big sears catalogs to cut clothes and furniture out of to play paper dolls. One time I had a hole in my sock and she grabbed a needle and thread to fix it all while I was still wearing it. My childhood is filled with memories of her and as an adult now, I know I think of what Yaya would do.  

For the believer, death means entering into the glorious presence of Christ. God gives us rest. Yaya deserves her rest and I’m sure she’s dancing with Pompa or talking with her Mother and brothers. Ecclesiasties 7:1 says that the day of one’s death is better than the day of one’s birth. While I will miss her tremendously, I am filled with gratitude that three generations sat on her lap and were covered by her quilts. We learned from her, heard her, hugged her. The heart of this community was strengthened by her presence and she is the fabric of a life well lived. The blessings of Yaya will leave a lasting legacy for generations to come not just for her own grandchildren's grandchildren but for all of those she blessed in this community as well.