Margaret Mary Johnson-Burghoffer

It took me awhile to decide to write this--well, not this one in particular; it took me awhile to figure out what I wanted to say about her.  It felt too personal to share in this venue, but this blog is nothing if not personal. (I mean, you know how I bad-mouth my child, for goodness' sake; it's not like I'm big on withholding.)  Either way, I have been marinating this entry for about six weeks, and this morning, I don't know if I'm ready exactly, but something should be said.

Margaret "Peggy" Burghoffer was my grandmother; my father's mother.  She died on Sunday, July 22, 2012.  The ironic part was I was literally just telling my coworkers that day how I was planning on bringing my children back east this fall to meet her before the imminent end.  This a true instance of the cruelty of irony. 

I wanted to share a few things about this woman.  My grandmother was one of those fierce women from whom I garnered my own tenacity.  She defended her own, even from within.  When I was a teenager, I was a bitch.  (That's not to say that this is not still the case, but I was a real piece of work in my mid-teens.)  I tended to take it out on my dad, her youngest son.  I remember one instance when my sister and I were spending the weekend with my dad and grandparents (my parents divorced when I was two).  I made some snarky comment about "this sucks" or "I want to go home" or something equally predictable.  She took me aside and shut the door.  That's when I knew she meant business.  She told me, despite protest, to sit down; she had to talk to me.  She told me that if I ever spoke to my father like that again, she would kick me out; that my father was the best dad she had ever known, and I should appreciate him for that.  I pouted.  She left.  At the time, of course, I assumed she was just picking on me for being mean to her baby boy.  Now, I can see what she truly wanted was for me to respect my elders, whatever hormonal craziness may be going on in my teenage head, a quality I desperately hope to instill in my own children.  But it was something my dad could never say to me, so she took it upon herself.  She was the woman who would be in your corner no matter what, if she believed in you.

We spent many weekends with her and my grandfather. Their relationship is one of the examples toward which I strive as a young wife.  They were together for sixty-one years, through World War II in which my grandfather was stationed as a fighter pilot in China.  Through three children and five grandchildren.  Through Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, which took my grandfather four years ago.  What I can recall of them was a comfortable dance between two people who still love the steps.  I can only hope...

My last memory of my grandmother was from close to two years ago.  Aurelia was nine weeks old, and I brought her here to meet everyone.  Grandma wanted nothing more than to hold her.  After rocking her to sleep, my grandmother paced the floor.  I found her an hour later, swaying in the front room of the house.  "My arms fell asleep," she said.  It was funny and sweet, at the time.  She had sacrificed her own comfort for the peace that her cradling arms and motion gave her great-granddaughter. 

As I remember her, it becomes clear that this act was indicative of her personality.  She followed her husband around the globe, spending time in Illinois, Texas, Denmark and finally back to New Jersey.  She gave up a career to raise my father, my aunt and my uncle.  She kept herself together when my grandfather was at his worst; her composure in that situation is nothing short of heroic.  Peggy did not live a grand life, to be sure.  Her's was a modest existance, but it was a life in which she was able to make herself very happy.  As distant as I became over the last seven years or so, since moving to Idaho, I know she was happy.  My memories are of her laughing and loving, and so they shall remain.

As much as I don't believe in hocus-pocus, I hope somehow, she is with her John, and that she is happy again.