Remembering my Grandmother
by Jon Reed

My grandmother, Edith Schipper-Lathrop, died on October 19, 2002, at the age of 93. On November 2, 2002, I spoke at the memorial service. This is what I said that day.

I'm here to tell you about the legend of my grandmother, Edith Schipper-Lathrop, and to fill in a part of that story you might not know.

The biggest moment of influence on my grandmother's life was probably the day I sat her down and told her she had to move from her beloved Hawthorne to a nursing home here at East Ridge. I knew I was forcing her hand; I was largely responsible for separating her from the dearest friends she had left.

And for the next couple of years, she let my Mother and I know all about it.

But then came the day that my Mom called to say she was coming down for a visit, and my grandmother told her, "Don't bother coming down, I've made other plans."

As it turns out, my grandmother had met a special friend. Eventually, my grandmother and Gordon got married, and you all know the rest of that story.

Gordon, your love, companionship, and loyalty brought my grandmother some of the happiest years of her life. Our family will always be grateful to you and yours.

As for my Grandma and me, most of you know that she and I had what you might call a complicated relationship. If she could see me today, she'd be impressed by my suit, but shocked by my hair - par for the course for her and I. She and I were like clocks, always trying to figure out what made the other one tick.

I sometimes joke that our last great agreement was college.

Since that time, I've had a hard time explaining my life to her, and she's had a hard time understanding my explanation. If she were here today, I'd tell her to hang in there with me - some questions take a very long time to answer.

My grandmother was a philosopher who knew her way around a kitchen, a woman who loved politics almost too much to talk about it. She had a passionate sense of right and wrong, a yearning for justice in a world she could not always see herself in. In her own quest for knowledge, she had much to overcome.

I can only hope that one day my mailbox will open, and inside I'll find one more letter full of her scratchy prose about Albert Camus and the meaning of life. I can almost see her out on the deck right now, admiring Great White Herons with a beer in one hand, and a hot dog in the other.