In Memoriam

Today we had the service for Aaron's Nana, his great-grandmother. She was a wonderful, sweet, infinitely kind lady whom I loved to pieces.

Aaron was tasked with writing a eulogy. It was beautiful, he delivered it beautifully, and there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

I thought today I'd share the beautiful writing my husband did for Nana.

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Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same

By Robert Frost

He would declare and could himself believe

That the birds there in all the garden round

From having heard the daylong voice of Eve

Had added to their own an oversound,

Her tone of meaning but without the words.

Admittedly an eloquence so soft

Could only have had an influence on birds

When call or laughter carried it aloft.

Be that as may be, she was in their song.

Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed

Had now persisted in the woods so long

That probably it never would be lost.

Never again would birds' song be the same.

And to do that to birds was why she came.

I never met Elinor Rabouin. I, like many in this room, knew a woman we called Nana. It's no surprise, since she was Nana longer than she wasn't.

My best memories of Nana are occulted by the fog of years gone by, scattered among the clutter of a disorganized mind, and vague due to the lack of import that a young mind affords fresh memory. There are however a few clear spots, many of which share a common theme, and together are some of my most favorite childhood memories.

In Nana's room she had, among other elegant asian-inspired furniture, a massive red cabinet, or armoire—whatever it was it had lots of doors and drawers—and behind two of the larger doors around about the middle of the thing she had games. All sorts of board games and the like, Scrabble and playing cards, Parcheesi—I think. She had a game called Rummikub which was played with little plastic tiles, and a Yahtzee-esque game called Zilch. We played them all and we played them often.

One of my favorites was Scrabble, and she never let me win—and so I rarely won anything—but her rejection of this often obligatory concession did nothing to diminish the fun I had. I still love scrabble, and nowadays, thanks largely to her, I almost never lose.

Another favorite was Poker—and she was a serious poker player! I remember her saying, if ever I got distracted by the flickering of the TV behind me, she'd say “Do you want to watch Star Trek, or do you want to play cards?” She was good too; we played with pennies as chips, and though all the pennies were hers to begin with, at the end you still felt like you'd been hustled by an old lady.

I guess the point is that Nana never treated me like a kid, in that patronizing way that adults are wont to do. She never tried to talk me out of a Scrabble game because she thought I'd be bored, or because she knew I'd lose. She encouraged and cultivated in me the idea that I could—and should—attempt things at which I might at first fail. She inspired a love for knowledge and an appreciation of patience and strategy, of wisdom and wit.

Today, nearly two decades later, it is no coincidence that I still value those things. I work with kids now, many of whom are jaded drop-out risks with turbulent home lives; and I carry Nana's values with me into work everyday, because I know that if I can do for a handful at-risk kids what she did for me, I will have succeeded.

Her legacy is like a song; it's notes and it's melody are composed of the values—the warmth and the wit, and the strength and wisdom, the generosity and humor, humility and confidence—and the guidance that she offered freely to all who listened.

Her song echoes in my heart and in my voice.
It echoes in the hearts and voices of everyone here.

Never again will our song be the same,
And to do that, was why she came.