This post includes comments by Nicholas Fitzhugh, Ben Fitzhugh, Emily Dozier, (and soon others) that were delivered at the Florrie's Memorial on August 30, 2009 in Chatham, MA.
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Reflections from Nicholas Fitzhugh
Grandma
At times like these, when forced to remember rather than experience someone dear to us, we often tend to exaggerate the memory. Unable to grasp the big things, we roll all of the little things together into an ever larger snowball-like approximation of the one we loved. The resulting memory then defies definition because it's just too big. Our thoughts and feelings then tend to be more about how much more they were than any of these parts. How much more they were even than the sum of their parts.
Well for me, Grandma was the mother of all mothers. A true matriarch in every sense if the word. I know with certainty that an overwhelming part of my sense of family stems from her sense of family. Her ability to build and maintain a family as large as ours, as independent, strong-willed and spread out as ours is nothing short of remarkable.
Families are inherently chaotic human systems that are as maddening as they are necessary. Almost everyone would describe their relationship to their familes as love / hate. No one seems to look forward to Thanksgivings or Christmases. But not this family. We come together all of us from near and far everytime. And guess what? We love it.
And here we all are again. Even on this somber occassion, I looked forward to being here, with all of you. Friends asked whether I was going to the Cape on vacation when I mentioned that I would be here this weekend. All of them apologized when I told them the motivation. I thanked them but every time I replied by saying that it was ok; that I knew that it would be a good event; that the whole family would be there; and that that is what Grandma would have wanted.
My sense of family is firmly established now. Thanks to Grandma and reinforced by my parents. And I love it. Quite honestly I wish everyone were so lucky. Cliche as it may be, the world would be a better place. Grandma was a rarity of the best kind in this way more than any other and that is how I remember her. I plan on continuing to remember her in that way and honor that memory by continuing to do what she did so well. Bringing and keeping family together. I know nothing she would have wanted more. And I dare say, we're off to an admirable start.
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Florrie – Memories and metaphors
By Ben Fitzhugh, August 30, 2009
My earliest memories of Grandma Florrie are set in the context of family road-trips from Washington D.C. to Chappaqua, N.Y. for holidays or passing through Chappaqua on route to or from summer’s in Labrador. As I got older these visits gave us a familiar touchpoint to ground our increasingly far flung lives.
I have particularly poignant early memories of at least one late night drive up the New Jersey Turnpike. It was a cold clear Christmas Eve, and we were hurrying to beat Santa Claus to grandma and grandpa’s in Chappaqua. We probably got to Chappaqua, around 1 am, and two groggy but enchanted kids climbed out of the car into the crisp late night, winter air at 20 Hog Hill Rd. Grandma met us at the door to hurry us in, embrace us warmly, feed us a snack, and hurry us off to bed in Grandpa’s old study over the kitchen, whence she returned to her last minute wrapping or stuffing the humongous turkey for the oven early the next morning.
Because it was impractical most years to visit my other grandparents who lived farther away, we visited Grandma and Grandpa Fitzhugh most Christmases. As a result, I came to associate all the mystery, magic, and measured indulgence of the season with these grandparents, and especially with Grandma Florrie, who was so clearly the grand marshal of the revelry. Florrie ran the kitchen, organized the Christmas Parties, told us how we could help on Christmas morning so we could move on to the gift opening ceremony, which often didn’t begin until late afternoon… and sometimes lasted several days. She ruled Christmas and somehow held a curiously tight connection to Santa Claus himself. As I got older, it was Grandma who initiated trips to the candle-light service at St. Marks church, or to visit a close friend or attend a neighborhood Christmas Party. She reveled in introducing her us to her friends and acquaintances. She would say something like, “Mary, I would like you to meet my grandsons, Ben and Josh, just up from Washington for the Holidays.” She would go on to embarrass us with some small detail of information showing just how proud she was about our latest accomplishments in school and beyond and showing us that she really was paying attention to our lives.
Once and a while, Grandma would also poke fun at us. Such as the time she met me on the morning after we arrived in Norwich wearing a single gaudy dangling clip-on earring and the bathrobe that she typically wore until around noon on any given day. Florrie didn’t have pierced ears, but she had to express her amusement at my newly pierced ear (this was during my first year at college). She got used to my earring quickly enough, but this was typical of Grandma’s dramatic sense of humor, which could be tinged more or less with critique.
But what I loved the most about Grandma Florrie was how she welcomed us so completely into her homes. We always looked forward to visits. And not just for the ribbon candy we could always find in the etched glass bowl, or the cookies she made in great quantities, especially around Christmas… There was something about the way she gave us the run of the house (and what houses!) with interesting places to explore and old things to discover and play with. It had something to do with how she engaged us in interesting projects, that also incidentally kept us out of the way and occupied for hours. In Chappaqua, I remember the basement loaded with ancient wooden toys left over from the Dark Ages … when Dad and Bug, Josh and Portia were kids… and the Attic, accessed through that trap door with pull down stairs that squeaked with the welcoming sound of hidden treasure at every step. Wigs, top hats, old fur coats, boxes of toys, and the intriguing old school campaign posters that read “Fits Who, Fits You. Fitzhugh for President”. But it wasn’t just exploring the houses and grounds, the antique furniture, old treasures, or the glass candy dishes that inspire my fond memories. Grandma inspired us in our projects by the interest she showed in what we discovered, in the dramatic performances we staged, and in our first hobbled attempts at poetry, creative writing, drawing or painting. She made each of us feel uniquely talented, special, and loved. And we loved her back.
I spent the past week sorting through Grandma’s photo albums and building a digital archive of her life in photos. This gave me the wonderful opportunity to see how she touched so many other people as she did me. Florrie’s sense of devotion for and responsibility to her family and her many intersecting communities guided her every project. Her loyalty and organizational skills won our affections (and single-handedly kept the U.S. Postal Service in business throughout the Holiday season!).
Grandpa dubbed her the Dragon Lady and named a boat after her, but in fact, the boat was his pleasure… grandma’s role was different. She was a mooring and beacon. The boats were for us, tolerated, albeit often with trepidation, so that we – her many family members – could set sail along the ice-bound coasts of northern seas or paddle down the Hudson or Danube Rivers, buck the stiff breezes of the Puget Sound or San Francisco Bay, and brave relentless headwinds of elementary teaching, politics or law. From the endurance cup races of journalistic entrepreneurialism, higher education, and tenure-track to the swells of Olympic competition, sculpture and graphic design, we took to those boats and ventured into the unknown. But we were always drawn back, as we have been again, by the beacon and the unseen tethers of a safe mooring in sheltered harbors, where Florrie waited eagerly for news of our latest adventures (and a heart relieved to have us back safely, however so temporarily). Florrie’s homes in Chappaqua, Norwich, Kendall, Chatham, and for a period, Sanibel, were all safe harbors, planted on the charts and seascapes of our lives, moorings set with the unbreakable braids of love, predictability, tradition, and good cheer, not to mention a tall pile of tuna-fish canapés, fluffer-nutter sandwiches and tall pitchers of ice tea with garden mint, served in green or blue plastic cups.
Grandma, we love you. Thanks for being there for us and through so much of our lives!
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"One Last Time", by Emily Starr Dozier
I came to Kendall in March to see you one last time.
You sat up in a chair;
Portia buffed your nails;
We laughed over old photographs.
You held my skein of wool—
Twirled it slowly to release the yarn as I knit—
A long green umbilical cord connecting us—
Your DNA to mine.
Your long, narrow feet
Your ‘difficult’ back
Your long legs.
You weren’t the knitting type of grandmother.
You didn’t decorate with cross-stitched verses of home and family.
No, you were more the Vodka and Tonic type—
Sophisticated; dignified; but also endearingly silly.
You played dress-up with me and Portia—
Strutted through the halls of the Norwich house, striking poses.
Once you even let me wheel you through the corridors of Kendall
Wearing a Groucho Marx mask, to scare the nurses.
You were always busy—
Talking on the phone;
Corresponding with far-flung friends.
You couldn’t sit still, even for a photograph.
I picture you here, at Chatham,
Deep in the Rosa rugosa, pruning shears in hand.
Or knee-deep in the harbor, raking quahogs for chowder.
Or in Norwich, at the head of an expansive dining table—
The matriarch, surrounded by your ‘Pandemonium Manor’ brood,
Laughing, talking, celebrating together.
The day after you held my wool,
I held your hand, and watched you,
Suddenly weakened, you lay in bed, eyes closed—but never for long.
As always, you didn’t want to miss a thing.
The Rosa rugosa,
Stage Harbor,
The Norwich dining table…
All faded away.
Leaving just you and me, in your little room,
A hospital bed,
And the smiling faces of your family
Looking down from the shelves.
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