Reta Klemmer

by Debra

The first time I met Reta, she had come all the way from Napa, California to Seattle, Washington to meet me. She walked into my room, peered over at me in my crib, and said, "Hellooooo, baby Debbie." I promptly started screaming. Maybe I just needed a little more exposure to her. My parents moved from Washington state to northern California when I was 3, so I got the opportunity to spend more time in Reta's presence. By the time I was ready for kindergarten, my Grammie and I were best buddies.

Reta was born in Eureka, California in 1900, the daughter of second-generation German immigrants. The house she grew up in was so small, and there were so many children, she had to sleep in the bathtub. That's where she was the day of the Great San Francisco Earthquake. She told me she thought the world was flying apart.

It couldn't have left too much of a negative impression on her, though, because she moved to the City in her late teens. She wouldn't talk much about that period of her life, especially how she made a living. I know my grandfather met her in a dance hall. I used to tease her about being a dime-a-dance girl, and she would shush me and change the subject.

She and my grandfather married in 1921, and were married for more than 50 years. They had four children, my uncles Jess and Jack, my father Richard, and my aunt June.

Reta was very social. She loved parties and family get-togethers. She loved to dress up and be complimented (she was a wee vain). Though she had Parkinson's disease, and grew increasingly disabled over the years, it never stopped her from wanting to get up and go somewhere. My family has hysteria- inducing memories of my grandparents' yearly treks from Napa to South San Francisco, when Grandpa would load up the Cadillac, stuff Grammie in the front next to him and roar out of his driveway, headed for our house. He never failed to get so miserably lost he'd have to call my dad. Often as not, Dad would have to drive out to wherever Grandpa had got himself and lead him to our home. Grammie looked so relieved once they finally parked the car in front of our house. And she always had to pee really bad.

I loved when they came to stay with us. They'd bring 3 months' worth of groceries for a weekend stay, and they bought weird "old people" stuff, like bran cereal. What I'd always go rooting through the boxes of groceries for, though, was the inevitable cream soda, which Reta and I shared a love for, and the ice cream, of which peach was her favorite flavor.

When my grandparents stayed with us, my little sister got the boot from our room, so Grammie could have her bed. I'd get her all to myself in the evening. She called me her "bunkie." She'd let me keep her up half the night asking nosy little girl questions (not that she'd always answer), and never got tired of listening to me. Eventually, I would hear a gentle snoring, and I knew it was time to end the evening's conversation.

Reta loved jokes, especially off-color ones, but every time she tried to tell one herself, she would start laughing so hard, you couldn't understand a thing she was saying. It was funny in and of itself, watching her try to get the words out. She also loved music, even rock and roll. I have clear memories of her in her chair, listening to Linda Ronstadt's remake of "That'll Be The Day," keeping time with her good hand and tapping her toes. She had me play it over and over for her on my mom's stereo.

After my grandfather's death, when I was in high school, she lived with us briefly. It was fun, and it was hard. She was so crippled by Parkinson's by that time that she needed help for almost everything. Most of her care fell to my mother, and in time, created a lot of stress in the family. My aunt eventually found a wonderful live-in caregiver for Grammie, and they moved into an apartment in Vallejo, close to my aunt.

Once she moved, I didn't get to see as much of Grammie. Part of that had to do with distance---I didn't drive at the time; part of it had to do with being a teenager, and thinking she would be around forever. Another aspect, though this came after I was married, was my parent's divorce, which was bitter, and left my mother feeling as though any contact we kids had with "that family" was somehow a betrayal of our loyalty to her. To keep peace with my mother, I avoided my Grammie. I regret that more than I can say, now.

One day, though, after my first daughter was born, I took her over to see Grammie. She wasn't the first grandchild, but you'd've thought that was the case, from the fuss my grandmother made over her. Not very long afterwards, Grammie had a massive stroke, and was hospitalized. My brother and I went to see her. She was almost completely paralyzed, and the nurses explained to me that she would probably die in the next few days.

She couldn't talk, so I sat next to her bed and held her hand. I had no idea what to say to her. I couldn't tell her goodbye; she wasn't prepared. So I talked about my daughter, how big she was getting, and all the things we'd do when Grammie came home from the hospital. My aunt called while I was there and told me my dad was on the way. Owing to our family dynamics, I felt it would be best if we left before he arrived. I kissed my Grammie on the forehead and told her I'd be back. She started wailing, and kept trying to reach out to me. I ran and got a nurse---I thought something was wrong. The nurse checked her and said that nothing had changed, she was probably just trying to tell me something. She began to question my grandmother gently. Did she need water? Was she in pain? Each time, my grandmother made a sound that seemed to be "no."

"Do you want your granddaughter to stay? Is that it?" the nurse asked. And Grammie wailed and tried to reach for me again.

I didn't want to leave, but I didn't want to have a battle in a dying woman's room with my father, either. I hugged Grammie and told her, "I'll be back, I promise I will. And I'll bring the baby with me." And I left, her wailing following down the hall behind me. I cried all the way home to Rohnert Park.

She died in the early morning hours, before I got the chance to make good on my promise. I wasn't at her funeral, for the same reasons I didn't stay with her the day she died. It haunted me for months afterwards. One day, though, sitting on my bed, holding my daughter, I had what I don't feel comfortable calling a "vision" (but have no other means of describing) of my grandmother, sitting in her chair, smiling at me. She told me she was fine, that she was happy, that she wasn't angry with me, and that I should stop worrying about her. I don't know how to explain it, but I'm glad it happened. I could finally have some peace with my grandmother's death, and get around the guilt to the good memories of our time together.

Reta didn't do anything extraordinary in life. She lived and was loved and then she died, which is probably as much as most of us will be able to say when our time is done. But she was the only grown-up I could totally trust, and her love for me was unconditional and forever.

I don't believe in Heaven, myself, but I have several good reasons for hoping I'm wrong. One of them is the wish to see my grandmother again, dancing her butt off to the sound of Linda Ronstadt.