My grandmother, Harriet Heller, is slipping away from me. She has been for some time now. This is difficult for me for all the reasons that it is for others and then, also, for so many other reasons. I’ve been somewhat manic in my desire to pull out old photographs and letters. To remember what her face looks like, looked like, what she sounded like, and how she expressed herself in writing.
She typically called me mamelah and I was mostly Leah when she was annoyed with me or felt like being formal for no reason whatsoever (I think regal might be a more appropriate expression). In so many ways, she shaped my view on beauty. It was she who introduced me to Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo as the best eye makeup remover around, the brilliance of eyelash curlers, the need for under eye concealer, and Aquafor for everything else. I learned to walk because of her pot roast, crave her corn pudding to this day, think hot cereal can only be made with four different grains, and never make an omelet without seltzer (fluffy as all get out—try it).
When my seven year relationship was sun setting, I cried under her one hundred pound velour comforter. Until the day she couldn’t ask anymore, she wasn’t satisfied with just hearing about my job, but needed to understand it. She is one of the few in that camp, I’ll tell you that much. I drank approximately 150 glasses of Coffee-Time at her kitchen table, think orange marmalade is the only jam or jelly that matters, and love a good piece of silver jewelry from Mexico (over diamonds). I love the way navy blue and orange complement each other, use tissues to prevent hanger marks on delicate skirts, and often eye the bread basket at the diner remembering how she often took it to go in a doggy bag (“there are people starving…” and “who doesn’t love challah French toast?”). She called herself the funniest person in the family which was not entirely true but she was funny as fuck when you least expected it, she often made up words that I only realized in my 30s were not actual Yiddish, and she always carried tissues in a Ziploc bag (which was embarrassing until you needed one and then it was goddam brilliance at work). This was only because the tissues in the small packets weren’t soft enough.
I must immediately disclaimer that my tenses will be confusing and inconsistent in this week’s posts. I feel guilty writing in the past tense, as she is still with us. But also, she isn’t. Not my grandmother. Not MY Harriet. And, I miss everything. I miss her frosted lipstick the color of tangerines, her picking her hair anywhere and at any time (I mean a pick people, a hair combing device—look it up), her hugs, her insistence on kissing on the lips (“it’s not weird, it’s what we do”), her laugh, and her love. I miss her criticism, her judgment, and her passionate dislike of all things conservative. She was a goddamn force. And now, she isn’t. She is quiet. She is mostly gone. I wanted to write this before I have to burn to my brain memories of anything other than who she was to me always. When I was the only grandchild who flew back home to the nest and we were able to have these moments. These precious, special, life-changing moments. Even when I was furious with her, I admired and learned from her. And boy, did she have a lot to teach me. She taught from a place of experience. She taught from a place of self-harm. She taught from a place of love. She taught in the way she lived and loved. So, this week, we are going to pay tribute to Harriet; the original carrot-colored haired goddess who I will forever and ever and always adore.
I am going to spend each day discussing one of the five major life lessons my grandmother bestowed upon me. I am going to break them down first and then we are going to dig in. Ready? I mean, there is no way you are truly ready for this goodness, but I’m going to lay it on you anyway.
Five Life Lessons from Harriet Heller
- Always wear an undershirt and lipstick.
- Be relentless in your pursuit of relationships.
- There is no such thing as too much seasoning.
- The world is wide and invites exploration.
- A book on cd is still a book.
Always seems appropriate to begin at the beginning, so, shall we?
I’m sure you’ve heard some variation on this first bit of advice, no? More often than not, I’ll hear people say that they were told to wear clean underwear because ‘you never know’. This entire sentiment has always troubled me, baffled me, and made me laugh. Gram’s words of wisdom are founded on the same principal. You never know what’s going to happen and you never know who you are going to run into, so….
I want to explain why I think this is utter silliness but then also, why I believe this little tidbit to be entirely brilliant. I was always pretty mystified (still am) imagining an emergency worker of some sort being floored and derailed by my lack of clean underthings or the absence of an undershirt. Like, if they have to use the jaws of life to cut me out of a car, is that the thing that’s going to give them pause? Will I receive a lesser standard of care because someone can see my nips or my underoos are a bit ratty? No. Furthermore, should we be that hyper focused on what the fuck other people think? Doesn’t that thought fly in the face of so much that I try and convey on this blog, where I encourage self-love and a strong sense of self? Yup.
But that wasn’t really the point here. It just wasn’t, or isn’t. The idea behind this self-care (which is what it is) is that when you put yourself together, when you are mindful of the details, it gives you a secret inner strength that is nearly unparalleled. On the darkest days of my life, I’ve self-motivated to put myself together. Not for anyone else. Not to prove anything. To lift myself up. To give myself a boost. To encourage my inner self to match my outer self.
Until she could no longer care, which is in some way a great tragedy, Harriet always cared what people thought. Even her sweat outfits will well curated and mostly tucked in. She cared about external perception and judgment to a fault, there is no doubt, but she also cared in a way that was frankly admirable. If you can separate the need for approval from the desire to carry oneself with grace and pride, then you are golden.
I don’t dismiss my feelings and I deal with my shit, but I also slap on mascara (my lipstick) and a happy face when I’m struggling. Not for the benefit of others, but for me. I confide in those who mean the most to me and whom I trust implicitly (avvery, very, very teeny tiny list which grows smaller by the day) and I hope that everyone else doesn’t have a clue. And when I just can’t do it and I really feel like I need a break, then I do just that. I take space. I take a breather. I move away from those who challenge my sanity and emotional stability.
Harriet wasn’t saying that we need to be dolled up at all times (though she was, at most times) but she was saying that we need to put our best foot forward. We need to care about ourselves enough to make our shit ours alone. This is a tough and somewhat unpopular message in a society that is hyper focused on oversharing but I’ll tell you something, I like it. I live by it. It’s actually helpful and sort of freeing. I had a friend once tell me that she was tired of people asking about ________ and I felt baffled. They asked about it because she had told EVERYONE and then, they wanted an update. To all those you show your lipstick face to, you owe no explanations. The few others, they can be your ride or dies.
I know this idea is counter to what we embrace today, but I’m encouraging you to see how it might benefit you, just a little. If you need something different, that’s okay too.
You do you.
Back tomorrow with additional HH pearls of brilliance.
L.
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