Bloody Hell

If she were still living, my maternal grandmother Hilda would have been 95 today. She passed away 8 years ago but I find myself doing things daily that recall her so for me she's very much alive. I say this without a drip of sentimental slop but with the full conviction of truth--she was, to me, a serious inspiration: a woman well ahead of her time and someone who combined Monty Python style humor and Mrs. Miniver fortitude. If that makes sense.

Hilda was a forthright and ballsy woman. She wasn't afraid of stating the truth and she wasn't timid in how she approached the realities of the world. You never had to sugarcoat facts with her and she would offer you sound council. She was wonderfully affectionate and equally blunt. She loved her cigarettes and her endless cups of tea. She swore like the English working class girl she was at heart and growing up, I often heard her exclaim in exasperation, "Oh Bloody Hell!" or (the family favorite) "SHIT!" She was bold and energetic and someone I adored completely.

She had a hard life. Born in 1913 in London, she was raised in a very poor working class English family. She often told me stories of the poverty she faced at a young age. At the time I thought it was a guilt tactic but I later realized that it was, in truth, an incredible treat for her to get an orange for Christmas in her stocking. Forced to leave school at age 14 to go to work, she always resented the robbery of her education in exchange for a family paycheck. She felt keenly the lack of her education. In an effort to improve this deficit, she began to read--yes, read--the dictionary. She became quite erudite doing so. In her later years, I recall her completing the New York Times crossword every day. She was interesting in her recitation of facts and data. I always considered her bright and well rounded in her knowledge. Had she not told me of her earlier life, I suppose I wouldn't have known better.

When she was in her late teens, she met my grandfather Albert. Everyone called him Edgar and that was how I knew him later in his life. Edgar was a maverick. He was a keen aficionado of football (English soccer) and he was chosen to represent His Majesty's team on behalf of Britain. This was the adventure of his life for he got to travel the world to play soccer in the name of the Empire. When he was older, he showed me photographs of this time. Times when he went to India and the Middle East, America and Europe. I clearly recall a succinct photograph of him--tanned and exuberant with the flush of youth sitting astride an elephant in Bangalore. Hilda had compiled the album. The pages were heavy black paper, carefully inscribed in her meticulous handwriting and the pictures framed with measured corner points.

Edgar and Hilda married. Soon after, Edgar fathered two daughters and then he was off on his whirlwind soccer tour. Hilda was not the kind of woman to sit at home and knit (although let me say here that she did in fact knit and was the person who taught me to knit). Hilda established her own business. She bought and operated a cafe in south London. She always called it "The Caf" as East Enders are wont to do. Edgar returned from his world tour. Domestic life resumed. And then, trouble.

Edgar met a girl, Phyllis. She looked a lot like my grandmother (in fact, she still does). She was young at the time (let's say, underage) and she suddenly found herself pregnant. What a horrific dilemma for Edgar. Leave it to Hilda. She said, "Eddie, you have to marry the girl." And like that, they divorced. My grandfather did the right thing and married the girl and they had three lovely children (they are now my aunts and uncle, but that's another story). And if you want a nice ending, they stayed together for many more years until Edgar passed away in the late 1990s. But this story is about Hilda.

So this left Hilda alone, the proverbial single mother with two young girls in London at the outbreak of World War II. And you wonder why I admire this woman so?

She continued to operate her cafe in New Cross, London as the war came on. She weathered the horrors of the Blitz in London throughout the war. She saw people killed and was nearly killed herself, but her indomitable spirit kept her strong. These experiences alone made her the woman she was when I came to know and love her.

She kept her girls with her (as you can guess, one of them was my mother) and rode out the turmoil that was wartime. After the war ended, she resumed her life. She operated her business, she supported her daughters. And then she found love again.

She met and married a man named Fred Wheeler. I don't know much about Mr. Wheeler except that I have a photograph of him. While darkly handsome like my grandfather, he looks a tad humorless. My mother and aunt grew up. My mother married my father, an American in London in the service during the Korean war; my aunt married a Dutchman she met during a foreign student exchange event. They both moved away and settled in California.

A few years passed and both my mother and my aunt wanted Hilda to move from the foggy bogs of England to California. Hilda missed her girls and wanted to make a change. The cafe was closed now and she longed for some new adventures. Mr. Wheeler demurred. He did not want to leave England. True to her nature, Hilda bid adieu to Mr. Wheeler, packed her bags and left her homeland forever. I never ascertained whether Hilda actually divorced Mr. Wheeler, but leave him she did, never to return.

Hilda took up a job in what they used to call a shaver shop (the older version of an electronics shop) in San Francisco. She handled customer service and the registry. She lived independently in the East Bay in a chic little apartment and dated a rather intriguing group of men. For the longest time, she had a debonair Norwegian called Lars who I thought she might marry. Lars always smelled so good; like sandalwood and fresh linen. I still remember that. Hilda had enough of settling down and apparently resisted Lars...and later, Clive..and later, Al. Hilda had many admirers and I enjoyed them all as nice people who loved my grandma. They were interesting and sophisticated people and I begged Hilda to marry one. But she had had enough and preferred to play the field. I appreciate her perspective only now.

After Hilda retired, my Aunt and Mom persuaded her to give up her apartment in the Bay Area and split her time between our homes. And so she did. It was heaven for me having her with us. When I would come home from school, she'd have the kettle going for tea and she'd be rubbing her hands together, ready for a game of Liverpool rummy (her version of gin rummy which we'd play for money and which she'd always win). She always used Yardley's lavender soap and the smell of lavender, Wrigley's mint gum and Kent cigarettes always sort of wafted around her.

She'd sit on the couch and work her crosswords. She kept a massive dictionary at her side at all times. She was a passionate gardener and she would toil long hours in the yard over her flower beds, She would take weekend trips to Reno to play bingo. She would spoil the menagerie of animals in our home; I remember she always called the cats "Titty" (regardless of their actual names). She would whip up wonderful English foods in the kitchen. We watched a lot of old movies together while we knitted. And always the card games in the den.

I soon went to college and Hilda went to live full time with my Aunt and the Dutchman in Palm Springs. I made a few trips down south to see her there and we resumed our easy banter over countless cups of tea, gardening tips, Chinese culture and language. I always felt I could be myself with Hilda. She'd always hug me and grab my bottom with affection saying, "Oy, what a great big bot you have." I knew she meant it with love (though I'd kill anyone else if they ever said that to me).

By the 1990s, I was in New York and couldn't see Hilda as much as I liked. She and I had always written to one another from my early age and at that time, I continued to take the time to write to her. Then there was a day in December 1999, I was on a business trip to Southern California. I was in the airport readying for a red eye flight back to New York. My mother called me to tell me that Hilda was in the hospital. Here was one of those moments I still regret. Should I cancel my flight and drive down to Palm Springs? My mother assured me Hilda would be fine. Uneasy, I boarded my flight. I flew home and when I walked into my house the next morning at 7 am, I had a call that told me Hilda has passed away. I remembered I dropped to the floor when I heard the news. I literally had to turn around and head back west for the funeral.

The funeral was very nice and Palm Springs was decked out fully in holiday cheer (as much as a dessert town can be). After the funeral, my aunt gave me a ring that Hilda has always worn. It was something Lars had given her, a souvenir from a trip to Chile. It was brass and emblazoned with raised motifs, but I remember her always wearing it--it was important to her. I was appreciative of the gesture and I keep it safely now.

I deeply miss many people who I've lost in my life, but I have a special place in my heart for Hilda. We were alike in many ways and I never had to censor who I was when I was with her. She recognized the kinship--I treasure that.

When I think of my grandmother, I recall a story that perfectly illustrates the woman she was. When she was living in the Bay Area, she came home from work one day and discovered her apartment was being burgled. She confronted the burglars and alarmed, they bolted from the apartment. As they ran to get away from her wrath, she chased them down the stairs. She must have been in her late 50s but she was as spy as a young woman. As they piled into their car to make their getaway, my grandmother caught up with them. The car peeled away and I'm certain as they looked back in their rear view mirror they caught this image: Hilda standing defiantly on the curb, shaking her fist at them, pledging revenge in no uncertain terms.