My dad asked me to speak at my grandmother's memorial service. I mean, I guess I kind of volunteered in an attempt to discourage my father from speaking. Lately he had been breaking down during public speaking engagements, and it seemed certain to me there would be some sort of uncomfortable spectacle if he insisted on speaking about his own mother. "It has been some time since she's passed," he said, "I mean, unless someone says something awful that makes me cry, I don't think it will be a problem."
"Okay." I agreed. I was to speak at the service with my brother. We exchanged ideas through emails and agreed that since Grandma had left instructions explicitly asking she not be eulogized, we would talk about ourselves. The conceit was that we would expose what she was all about through what she gave us, her grandchildren. It seemed like a pretty good idea, not maudlin or sappy, it had a nice little joke built into the beginning (the talking about ourselves bit) and we could honor my grandmother's character too. With the service in the morning, we decided he would cover the grandsons, I would cover the granddaughters.
I wanted to talk about the strength of character, importance of education, and how to act like a lady. I wanted to explain how incredible it felt to knew that this little woman, all by herself, left her country as a teenager to pursue the life she wanted, and how much strength I drew from knowing I was drawn from that stock. I wanted to touch everyone's hearts without turning my father into a blubbering blibblecakes.
What I did say was this:
On behalf of Joyce's granddaughters, I would just like to speak on how much of her we carry with us everyday. I mean, obviously we all got our stunning good looks from her. My cousins inherited her lean frame, while I received her ample bosom. None of us feels we got a fair deal."
And that's how I made a joke about my grandma's boobs at her memorial service.
POST:
This story also has a part where I ask my dad if he knows how my grandma referred to her chest.
