farewell, Zoë Kupusa
the journal of Michael Werneburg
twenty-seven years and one million words
Today we had the memorial for Oma. It actually went fairly easily.
Mom, Ken, Heidi and I headed down in mom's rental car and arrived a little early. We killed half an hour in the cafë in Jordan Hollow, a place I've pased hundreds (if not thousands) of times, without ever stopping. Then we headed up to the funeral home, and were greeted by Dad, Renate, Ulli, Maureen, Kate and Julie. Oma's neighbours (Randy and Peggy from next door, and the Branderhorsts from across the road), and some old family friends (the Zeppels) turned up, along with Renate's sister Sonja and her family.
Dad started out by calling everyone's attention and giving a little speech. He spoke of how she'd been the one to keep the family in house and home, how it had fallen to her do things like fix the radio. He told the story of his one attempt to teach her to drive. They had an old beast with a manual transmission, and he spent an hour trying to teach her the use of the clutch, brakes, and accelorator. At the end of the hour, they were no further along, and she could do little more than stall the thing. So they got out and he gave a little demonstration. She watched him, and asked, "Oh, you use both feet?" I identified with her, having had some early lessons with Dad, myself.
Next was Ulli. He spoke of her endurance and strength, and of the work that she'd put in all the years, supporting everyone. He also spoke of the love that she had for them, which she didn't often show (being, as he said, from northern Germany).
Then various parties gave simple speeches. Maureen spoke of her love of chocolate. Mom spoke of her humour. Mom wanted me to stand and tell the same story I'd told her the night before, about Oma and Sara's niece Zoë, which went like this:
Sara and I were babysitting Zoëfor the weekend, and we took her down to Niagara to visit with Oma. At one point, Zoëstarted to sniffle and pout. Sara and I were unable to do anything with her. She just kept quiet, snuffling and red-faced. Sara's hectoring and my questions of 'Whassa matter?' went nowhere.
Zoë was standing to one side of the room, holding a National Geographic magazine she'd been flipping through. Oma watched her for a moment, then decided that the girl wanted something.
Oma adopted a patient tone, and asked her, "Zoë, come here."
Zoë had been too shy to speak with Oma to that point, and the child hesitantly went. She approached Oma, pouting and clutching the magazine.
Oma asked, "Do you want something?"
Zoë nodded, and remained silent. A bit of further prompting elicited a tearful plea from her for the National Geographic issue. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it.
Oma said, "I've never heard of a child wanting such a thing! Of course you may have it."
Zoë cleared up immediately. At Sara's urging, she thanked Oma, and wandered off with the magazine, happy. I marvelled at the 83-year-old's knack with the three-year-old. she had a natural talent with the child. Of course, for a woman who'd given birth to five kids and had four grandchildren, it probably was second nature.
But I couldn't stand up and tell that little story. All three of the people in it are now out of my life for ever.