A Tribute to My Omi, October 26, 2006My memories of Omi are like snapshots, pieces of remembering that are part experience, part smell, part taste, part texture, part feeling.
Omi was someone who cherished her memories, even the ones that were scary or sad. She believed that they were a part of her, in the same way that our memories of our Omi are a part of us. She was a master storyteller, and I know I spent hours sitting on her green couch, watching out the window and listening to her tell about her life. A life rich with adventure, pain, love, and faith.
Perhaps she told us her memories, because she knew she was forgetting, and wanted to preserve them somehow. Her stories of escaping the Communists through dark forests filled with soldiers, hiding under trains, staying very quiet while hanging onto horse reigns so that the Russians wouldn’t see her. The stories of her mother, her father, her sisters and brothers. Tante Tin, who played the guitar. Henry, with shrapnel in his head, Mimi, who had meningitis as a girl, Lilly, who was by her side always and almost her sister… These stories made up the fabric of her life. And now they have become part of our living fabric.
I remember Omi.
In my childhood memories, she is Superwoman, running around in the backyard with us, dancing Hapak, staying up past my bedtime talking about boys and periods and what I want to be when I grow up. She also makes the best Obstmoos of anyone I know, always has oatmeal cookies in her mushroom cookie jar, and knows people all over the world. She speaks English, German, Russian, Ukrainian and Low German. She is always available for tea and talking, folding paper hats or making paper dolls, and making me laugh.
After my childhood memories, which are bright, colourful, vibrant... come memories I sometimes wish I had the capacity to forget. This was Omi's forgetting time, the gradual erasure of all the memories she held so dear. I remember once, I was only a child, I came into her apartment and she was staring into a hand mirror and crying. "Christine," she told me, "you have to promise me something." Frightened, I nodded, "Of course, anything. Anything." "I have a bad sickness," she said. "A sickness that will make me forget. It will make me forget your name, and who you are. And I need you to promise me that you will love me for always, even when I do not know you." "I promise Omi, I promise." It was not an easy promise to keep. It was difficult watching her slip away from us.
But at the same time, I learned. I learned from my grandmother about dignity and grace, about faith, about taking joy in the moment. And indeed, a bird in a branch, a furry caterpillar, a flower, a child's laugh, would bring a beaming smile to her lips, a smile that lit up her whole face and made her brown eyes sparkle. Even when she could no longer speak coherently to us, her smile was the same.
We remember Omi.
Julian remembers Omi’s famous backrubs, and eating Obstmoos with ice cream.
Hillary remembers going to Bethania to sing Christmas songs.
Jeremy remembers that Omi told him to sit up straight or else he would grow a hump on his back that would never go away. She used to have to sit with a broomstick, after all.
Colin remembers riding in her red car, holding the round crocheted pillow on his lap in the back seat.
Andrea remembers the Our Canada coffee table book that she and Omi paged through ceaselessly with bright shiny pictures Omi exclaimed over every single time.
Alex remembers going to Omi's for sleepovers and watching elephants and lions on television while a red-haired guy narrated the outdoor adventures.
Stephanie remembers making paper hats and ironing lessons, or shall we say, admonishments. "Stephanie, fass das nicht an! Fass das nicht an!"
Graeme remembers that Omi hated white cars and always told him that his first car should be red.
Zachary remembers melodies of songs she always sang to us before we fell asleep about little men wearing red capes living out in the forest, and little ducks bobbing in the water.
I am getting married in a few months. David and I met two years ago, at a time when Omi was already unable to recognize us and unable to speak. During the course of our relationship, I have often commented to him how much I wish he could have known her, really experienced her love of art, of music, of good food, of language, of helping others, her love for all of us. I said it again the day she died. He looked at me for a moment, and then said: "But I do know her. I can see her in the way you care about each other and about those around you. Look how many grandchildren sing or play an instrument. All of the grandchildren speak more than 1 language. Look at those who have a fascination with creating art. She is a part of all of you."
Omi is a part of all of us. She is woven into our living fabric. Every memory we have of her, every story someone tells us about her. That becomes part of our fabric too. That is what we can cherish.
Wir haben dich lieb, Omi. Träum was Süßes.
The first dress I tried on... it was so heavy and huge! 
Tada! The train
Yikes! I am not sure what this is...
So many pretty dresses...
