“Every house needs a grandmother in it.”
Louisa May Alcott
Good day, subscribers and friends. I was going to write about Stephen A. Smith today, but you are going to have to tune in again for that. Because I am pivoting sharply to ask you a personal question:
What do you/did you call your grandmother?
Nonna? Memaw? Nana? Bubbe?
Abuela? Nona? Mimi? Gigi?
Grammy? Avo? Oma? Babushka?
There are so many options, and after exhaustive research, I can tell you why: there are grandmothers all over the world. Doesn’t it make sense that there would be almost as many nicknames for them as there are countries and cultures?
I’d like to add one more name to the list: Maysie. Maysie was my maternal grandmother, and even though I am completely biased, I am here to tell you she was one of the kindest, most loving human beings ever to grace this earth. Just trust me on that. Please.
“Parent-child relationships are complex,” author Janet Lanese once said. “Grandmother-grandchild relationships are simple. Grandmas are short on criticism and long on love.”
Four generations: Maysie (standing). Seated (L.), Elizabeth Tuttle, Maysie’s mother. Seated R., Marion Coffey, Maysie’s daughter. Seated on Maysie’s daughter’s lap: Maysie’s youngest grandchild, Wayne Ryerson Coffey.
Maysie was born May Ryerson Tuttle on this day, May 22, 1894. It was a Tuesday, 130 years ago if you are scoring at home. If she were here I’d bake her a cake and make a fuss over her, which she would hate, because she never wanted to be fussed over. If you spent 3 cents on The New York Times, you would’ve read about a terrible flood in Williamsport, Pa. that day, and the controversy over whether New York City police officers should get a $200 raise to $1,400 per year. Somehow The Times missed the birth of Maysie.
Maysie and her younger brother, Austin, grew up in a rambling white house in Woodhaven, Queens, where the Tuttles were prominent members of the First Presbyterian Church. The pastor was the Rev. John Allison MacRury, whose family emigrated from Scotland to Nova Scotia before he decided to be a clergyman and attend Union Theological Seminary. Rev. MacRury, a polished preacher with a warm, kindly demeanor, was beloved by his congregation, and that was a good thing. Otherwise there might have been a scandal when he took a liking to Miss May Tuttle and asked her father, Mr. Hiram Tuttle, for her hand in marriage, even though he was 40 and she was 23. Mr. Tuttle gave his blessing. The wedding took place on October 16, 1917. They were married for 55 years, until my grandfather passed in 1962.
The MacRurys had two daughters, Jean and Marion (my mother), and by the time World War II ended, they were on their way to having five Baby Boomer grandchildren, of which I was the runt. Maysie and Grandpa Mac, as we called him, lived in a separate apartment at the end of the house my parents bought in Huntington, L.I., a picturesque north-shore town by the Long Island Sound, the western edge of Suffolk County, which would soon be bisected by the Long Island Expressway and see its rampant potato farms swallowed whole by developers
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Growing up with easy access to your grandparents was the best thing ever to this little kid, and not just because they always had a stock of Hershey bars in the drawer of a living-room table. You were allowed one chocolate bar a day. It was the honor system. One day I took a second, telling my grandmother that the first one melted. She knew it hadn’t melted, and I knew she knew, but she didn’t call me on it or play “gotcha.” She just looked at me in a gentle, mildly disapproving way, as if to leave me with the moral conundrum to solve. I left with chocolate bar No. 2 and returned with it a minute later and put it back in the drawer. She could’ve trotted out the George Washington/cherry tree story to teach me about honesty. Her loving look worked much better.
Walking through the door that separated my grandparents’ apartment was like walking into another world. They ate soft-boiled eggs and slender slices of high-protein Thomas’ bread, and had a jar of prune juice in their refrigerator. It looked brown and nasty – my preferred beverage was Hawaiian Punch – but to this day when I see a jar of Sunsweet Prune Juice it warms my heart.
Everything felt special in their apartment. Maysie called me “Ol’ Bean,” and had all her own sayings. If she wanted me to swallow medicine or finish up a drink, she’d say, “Down the red lane.” If she heard someone being a little too boastful for her taste, she’d say, “I like me. Who do you like?”
Maysie was refined and impeccably mannered, befitting a minister’s wife. I never saw her wear anything but a dress, always accompanied by her black grandmother shoes. When she would round a corner, she would reflexively reach behind and run her hand over the dress so it would billow a bit as if it had gotten caught in a gust of wind. She’d make the slightest sound – “Arrrrrr” – as she did. It reminded me of air coming out of a balloon. It was one of my favorite sounds.
Maysie drove a 1960 Rambler, until she swapped it out for a 1964 Dodge Dart. She was a good, careful driver.
I loved going places in her car. Mostly that’s because it meant I was with her. On the other side of their apartment door, where we lived, there was an increasing amount of anger and volatility as I got older. Tempers flared and doors were slammed and the only constant was that I didn’t know what would happen next. It made me appreciate Maysie even more. She was as consistent as a metronome, ticking out love and reassurance and comfort, making every one of her grandchildren feel special and safe. Happy 130th birthday, Maysie. Whatever you call your grandmother, I hope you have memories like these.
What a wonderful tribute. I have such vivid memories of Maysie (l didn't address her by that name)and her home. She always welcomed me and was so very kind. I don't think she ever uttered a harsh word to me, though my behavior surely would have merited it on occasion. After she passed, I acquired a small mirror that had hung in her home. It is now hung in my home. Happy Birthday, Mrs. MacRury!
In the late 60s as I was a member in good standing of my generation and thus a logical person for a curious grandmother to ask whether I had any marijuana, and could she see it? Highly amused, I promptly retrieved a "lid" cleverly hidden in my socks drawer. She opened the baggie and shrugged, unimpressed. "How much does this cost?" Her priceless reaction was disbelief that I'd paid $20 for "vegetable matter."