Remembering Grandma (1927-2024)

On a blustery, rainy day in February, while running errands with Thomas, I got a text that I had known for a while would be coming, but somehow still felt sudden: my grandma, my dad's mother, had passed away at just shy of 97 years old. 

Margaret Elizabeth "Betty" Penn Schlosser Feldkamp was born in Cincinnati on March 6, 1927, the middle of the three daughters of T Roy and Minnie Mae Penn. The "T" in T Roy doesn't stand for anything, and "Minnie Mae" is indeed the name on my great-grandmother's birth certificate. I get the impression they were kind of country. I never met my great-grandfather, who died even before my father was born, but I know that they met when he worked for her parents' farm in Lexington, Kentucky, and later made his living as an electrician. I got to know Minnie Mae, whom I always called "Grandma Penn" very well. She, too, lived to be 96 years old. She read all the time, and I couldn't believe how much she knew. She did the hard crossword puzzle in the Cincinnati Enquirer. I remember her sitting in the best chair at family gatherings, and all of us were taught to give her a kiss when we were arriving and leaving, and to be solicitous of her at all times. She graciously accepted all as her due, and we loved her dearly. 

L-R: Lois, Mary Lee, and Betty

Young Betty was pretty and vivacious, surrounded by a gaggle of friends and typically at the center of activity. The local Methodist church had a girls' group that met regularly, I guess like a youth group. Regular attendees got to go to a summer camp in New Richmond, and Grandma remembered with fondness a carload of them driven there by her dad one summer, probably as many as could fit. They'd swim in a pool that was fed by a spring--and therefore freezing cold-- and sleep on the screened-in porch to catch the summer breezes.  

My mom recalls that not long ago, Grandma was reminiscing about the best Christmas gift she ever got, something she couldn't expect her parents to be able to afford in those tough times, but she longed for it nonetheless: her own bike. When she came down the stairs that Christmas morning and saw it, she knew it was her "ticket to freedom," and she was off to join all the other lucky kids with bikes who roamed Madisonville and beyond, with not a care in the world. Mom tucked this special memory of Grandma's away in her heart, and for a long time hoped to come across a piece of art that fit her impression of that story, to present to Grandma as a memento.

One evening in the early forties, teenage Betty was washing dinner dishes and looking out the window of their house on Homer Avenue, and a tall, handsome young man caught her eye. Surely she was familiar with Paul Schlosser; they'd been next-door neighbors all her life, and she was friends with his younger sister Ann. But it might have been a while since she'd seen him last, and he must have cut a dashing figure in his Navy uniform, because she pronounced, "That's the man I'm going to marry." It was always one of her favorite stories to tell.

Paul had enlisted in the Navy at 17, and re-upped after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He served aboard the destroyer USS Stack (DD-406), which participated in the island-hopping campaign in the Pacific theater, including the battles of Guadalcanal and Okinawa.

I think that's Aunt Lois about to catch the bouquet.

When Paul got out of the Navy he took over his father's painting and wallpapering business, and he and Betty married in 1948. They had four children over the next 12 years: Linda, Scott (my dad), Mark, and Paul. 

 My father describes a simple and happy life growing up in their home in the neighborhood of Hyde Park. He chuckled recalling how he used to fool his mother into doing his homework for him, coming in from the kitchen with dishwater on her hands, which would drip on the paper. She was only going to help, but he kept needing more help, until whether she was aware or not, she was basically doing it herself (a scenario I'm pretty sure has played out in my house a time or two). 

He recalls that his parents liked their routines; every evening after dinner they would sit in the kitchen listening to the radio, while the kids would be in the living room watching TV. There was a place they liked to go out for drinks sometimes. During summers, the family might spend a whole day at a park on the Little Miami River maybe 30 minutes away, picnicking and swimming in the river or the pool. 

Top photo is L-R Linda, Scott, Betty and Mark.

Paul's idea of quality time with the family didn't always align with hers. He loved to take the family camping, but roughing it was not her thing. Nobody looked better doing it, as you can see in the picture below. It is so funny to think of her fixing her hair and picking out a pencil skirt and blouse to go camping in. Grandma's hair was always done.

As the kids grew older, Paul took them on fishing and hunting trips, activities that the boys usually enjoyed, but "we weren't keen on doing it in the freezing cold." However, their father was impervious to the cold, and the boys braved many hours shivering in cold woods and on riverbanks. As Mark once said, "The best part of going hunting was getting home." Grandma was probably like, "You boys have fun!"

There's a memory that stands out for my father, from the day of his high school graduation, as he stood on the football field with the rest of his class. Some movement in the stands caught his eye, and he saw his father moving purposefully down the bleachers with his long legged strides. His sense of alarm increased when he saw his father was not stopped by the four-foot wall that was keeping everyone off the field who was not graduating. He just hopped over and beelined toward his son, who was by now wondering What's wrong? Am I in trouble? When he reached him he grabbed him in a big bear hug, and now my dad's astonishment was complete. The whole thing was entirely out of character for the man. He was not typically effusive or demonstrative; he had to have been overcome by joy. 

When I asked him for any stories or memories about his mom that he would like to share, my father was apologetic when he told me that he only remembered little things; maybe he thought I was hoping for something dramatic, a major event, or something like that. But I think a life well lived offers up relatively few of those big stories, and many more of the small, seemingly insignificant ones. Looking back, these are the ones that when put together, form the clearest picture of a person whose presence in your life was constant and comforting. In the end, as they say, the little things are the big things.

From left to right, the grownups are Mary Lee, Minnie Mae, Betty, Paul, Lois, and her husband Leonard. The children left to right are Mark, Linda, Scott, and their cousin Lenny.

L-R: Scott, Linda, little Paul, big Paul, Betty and Mark

Grandma Penn and Aunt Mary Lee owned a cabin on Elk Lake, about an hour away in Kentucky, that the whole extended family enjoyed for many years. It was the site of swimming, fishing, waterskiing, and lots of slow, easy summer living together. As the kids grew up they continued to come on their own, taking friends along. Dad would call ahead to let them know they'd be on the way, and there would be a light on and beds made up when they got there late.

Paul in the doorway, Minnie Mae (holding baby Christopher), and Rose

No one will forget the time the Bee Gees came down for the weekend.😉 L-R: Dad, Mark, and their friend Tony.

By the seventies Betty and Paul were entering a new chapter of their lives together, with a grandchild to dote on and only one of their own children left at home, but then Paul began to get sick. He hung in there, still doing his favorite family activities when he was up for it, and playing with his little granddaughter as much as he could; but in 1975 he died of colon cancer at only 55 years old. Minnie Mae and Mary Lee sold the Elk Lake cabin not long afterward; it was never the same being there without him.

L-R: Aunt Mary Lee, Linda, Aunt Lois, Grandma Penn, and Grandma

L-R: Lara, Grandma holding me, and Amy (my mom)

By the time a few more years elapsed, two more of her children were married with families, and she herself married again in 1982, to Al Feldkamp. He was a widower with two grown daughters named Amy and Jody. She moved into his house in northern Kentucky, and this is where all my own memories of Grandma begin. As my cousin Carlee (Amy's daughter) put it, "Louise Drive is Memory Lane for me." 

My earliest memory of Grandma is sitting on her lap and examining her long manicured nails. She showed me how to fold my hands together with my fingers inside and say, "Here's the church and here's the steeple (Two index fingers touching). Open the door (the two thumbs) and here's the people (Separating the palms and wiggling the fingers)."

I was always so happy to be going to Grandma and Grandpa's. On Christmas Eve I was tickled to think we were going "over the river and through the woods" to get there. Granted, it was on I-275, but still.  Grandma would greet us at the door with a big smile. That house always smelled amazing, and nothing was ever out of place. I opened my first Cabbage Patch Kid in that living room, a gift from her. All of us cousins would run around in the basement or play pool or ping-pong. If it was nice outside we'd be in the backyard that had a view of rolling hills. There would be a bag of goodies set out for each of us on Christmas Eve, and a basket on Easter Sunday. We had Easter egg hunts back there if the weather permitted; the little kids would be turned loose first with their brown lunch bags, and one of them would get the egg that we all saw sitting on top of the garden hose at the bottom of the steps. 

At some point during any visit, she would take the time to talk to me, and was always so interested in what books I was reading, what things I had to look forward to, what was new... One time I told her I was nervous about having to switch schools and make new friends, and she told me, "Just smile, and you won't have any trouble." I was a pensive child for whom smiles didn't come easily, but I'm sure that for Grandma, that strategy never failed.

Grandma's backyard on Easter Sunday in 1987. L-R: Will, Jerry holding Aaron, Carlee, Christopher, Scotty, Ricky, me, Dad holding Anna, and Rose holding Erica. Scotty and I had already changed out of our Easter clothes, apparently. I remember that skort, it was one of my favorite things.

As much fun as the big family gatherings were, though, the best times were when it was just my siblings and me, such as the time we stayed for a couple days when our sister Grace was born. Grandma had planned ahead and gotten a paperback for me, an adult coloring book, and fine-tipped markers. Maybe she worried we'd be bored. At any rate, I did appreciate these things. She and Grandpa would take us along on their daily walk to Orphanage Road, and back at home we'd sit around the living room together reading, coloring, maybe watching TV. Once we were listening to some sports talk station, and we no kidding heard my cousin Christopher call in to talk about the Reds.* Grandma taught me to sew and make my own stuffed animals. She made fried chicken with breading made of crushed Zesta crackers, and my brother and I exclaimed, "It's Kentucky fried chicken!" At night we would eat pretzels and watch a made-for-TV movie before bed. I slept in the room with the pretty four-poster bed and the portrait of Linda as a young bride on the dresser.

Sometimes she'd pick a couple of us up and take us to a movie. The first one was E.T. I remember us giggling at the scene where Elliot's mother looks in the closet and the camera pans over all the stuffed animals and E.T.'s silly face. I think the last movie she took me and Scotty to when we were older was What Lies Beneath (the epic bathtub scene with Michelle Pfeiffer's toe!). By now you might be thinking we were her favorites, but I know that she must have made the same kind of effort with all her grandkids.

Grandma was in my entourage the day I graduated Marine Corps boot camp at Parris Island, SC; she wouldn't have missed it for the world. A month or two later she and Grandpa took some time from a vacation in Topsail to come visit me at Marine Combat Training at Camp Geiger. I like to imagine how Grandpa stated in his surly voice to the gate guard that they were there to see PFC Schlosser. I had no idea they were coming. I was pulled out of a class and curtly informed that my grandparents were here, and I had 10 minutes to spend with them. They bought me a Coke from a nearby machine while we chatted. I probably stunk to high heaven, but she gave me a hug.

Now and then a yellow bubble mailer with her handwriting would find me wherever I happened to be at the time--a barracks room, a dorm room, some dusty corner of Iraq or Afghanistan--and it would have a note and treats tucked inside. It would always brighten my day. I've never been much of a phone person, always preferring letters, emails and texts. But she was always so easy to talk to, and she also knew how to end the conversation gracefully, an exceptional skill, one that I've never mastered; I could just keep rambling. She gave me a call to check up on me soon after I had Timmy. When I told her what an easy baby he was she said, "Well of course, that's the only kind of baby you could have right now." It made perfect sense to Grandma, and it really ought to be a rule that if you have two under five, and give birth to a third while their daddy's deployed, it had better be an easy baby. She remembered that her third baby was not one of the easy ones.  With a chuckle she told me about the time she took newborn Mark to the doctor, and the doctor said, "The baby looks good, but you look terrible." 

She suffered the losses of her mother and both her sisters in the span of just three years. They had all remained so close throughout their lives, and had shared everything. The hole they left in her life had to have been huge. Out of all the Penns who lived on Homer Street, she was the only one left.

Grandma and Delaney

Grandma and Grandpa with Scotty III

Amy and Jody died young of cancer and lupus respectively, and not long after, Grandpa Al died in 2015. More than ever, she was grateful to have all four of her children in her life, and she always had an especially close bond with Linda. She had her schedule full of things to keep her busy throughout the week: her hair appointments, her lunch and shopping dates with Linda, walks around the mall, and visits from my parents as well as my other aunts and uncles. Every year on her birthday her kids would take her out to dinner, and that was something she always looked forward to. 

L-R: Paul, Mark, Linda, Dad and Grandma

Grandma and Grace

After Grandpa Al died, she sold the house on Louise Drive, and moved into an apartment complex not far from where my aunt Linda lived. I would accompany my parents on their visits there while I was in town. There was a beautiful wreath on the door of her unit, the coffee table from Louise Drive, a candy dish, and a balcony full of beautiful plants that were always catching my eye. She'd offer us drinks, and then we'd spend about an hour or so catching up. She would tell us about what she was up to with her friends in the building; she hardly missed any of the group activities there. One time she had us dying laughing talking about chair volleyball. One of the guys had smacked the ball right into the back of her head, and she was saying, "That dummy, I told him you're supposed to hit the ball up and over the net, not straight in front of you!" Fortunately, as my mom mentioned later, the ball was actually a balloon. It had probably messed up her hair. 

L-R: Elise, Amy (holding Taj?), Grandma, Jaden, Grace, my aunt Liz (Amy's sister), Sophie, and David

About two or three years ago, Grandma decided she'd had enough of independent living, and moved in with Linda. This past Christmas Day, the extended family gathered at the clubhouse at their condo complex. We took turns going over to their condo to see her, since she wasn't up for going to the clubhouse. When I came in the door, she said, "Rachael!" and her face lit up in the same girlish way as ever. As always, she wanted to know what was new, how were the kids, that sort of thing. She admired the sleeves on my sweater, and I treasured the compliment coming as it was from such a good dresser. She received all her visitors bearing their little gifts like a queen, like her mother long before.

She was in and out of hospice throughout January and February. Right up to the end, she kept everyone guessing. But at last her time came, and on February 23, Grandma passed away with Linda at her side.

We gathered from near and far for her funeral on March 1, including all 19 of us grandchildren, and nearly all of her 35 great-grandchildren. As I always do the rare times we get together, I marveled at how my cousins had grown up, how much their kids had grown up, and how beautiful everyone's families were. I wondered for the umpteenth time how was it that I had gotten NONE of the tall genes. Grace shared with me that Grandma had once said to her as she had looked around the room at a family gathering, "Can you believe all these people came from me?" Now here they were, all these people. Everyone there was someone she'd welcomed and loved, from birth in the case of a few, through marriage, or from the first time she saw them coming to the front door in the arms of their parents, the babies of babies grown up. Each one could tell their own story of what she meant to them. Each one was living testimony to a life well lived. This family: her pride and joy.

Grace's Taj and my Thomas with a couple of the lovely blooms from her casket

*Any time any one of us were in the news the two of them would read it, see it or hear it. They didn't need to be told ahead of time, they would just see it. Maybe they monitored all the news media outlets. The time that stands out in my mind is when I was a student at Miami University, and I had a few seconds of fame when I was asked for a quote while standing around in my Miami t-shirt outside Millett Hall. She called my parents to let them know she'd seen it. If there was ever any negative press about any of us, I never heard about it, but if one of our mugshots had ever been on the evening news, I know they'd have seen it. I can imagine Grandpa Al saying, "Hey Lizbeth (that's what he called her), look at this..."