(part 8 of 8) 
Mostly, however, despite being a wayward nomad in life, Grandma was the one constant I had in my life.  I never lived in a place longer than a couple of years.  I never had childhood friends that I grew up with.   Most folks don’t really know who I am, they just know I’m Renate’s kid and I show up, occasionally, and then I leave.   But, instead of constant locations, I had a Grandma who would, with her “fayetteville-german” accent, show up at punctuated moments in my life.  Graduations, wedding, deployment home-comings. . . short of my parents, she was the one constant who has been part of a timeline of memories that make up who I am.  And, importantly, she knew enough about me personally, and she was astute and perceptive enough that, not only would she catch my LOOK during a random coffee afternoon in her backyard at 4909 Lakehurst Dr., but she would know enough about me to know what was behind that look.   For someone who has been un-tethered through much of her life, that was and is a big thing. 
I wrote a lot today for many reasons, but also because this is what I also used to share with grandma.  I wrote really long letters from wherever I was in the world, whether she liked them or not.  Toward the last few months, she would send me a cartoon snoopy on facebook with a look that said, “really, does it really need to be that long?” Yep. It does. 
And to top it all off, writing about all of this has caused me to bawl my eyes out. . . just in time for the unannounced Air Conditioner workers, who only speak Mandarin and Cantonese, to arrive.  Eye leaking, face puffy, nose dripping, I had to answer the door so the air conditioner could be fixed. I’m including that in this, because I think Grandma probably would have gotten a kick out of that, too.  


(part 7 of 8) 
Grandma wasn’t one to overly praise or provide pandering, but she had a quiet way to make one realize that she cared.  For me, in my awkward little way, this was focused on the art projects I made for her.  She never overly praised me, but then whenever I visited her house after having made something for her, I would notice the piece I made her displayed somewhere noticeable. She never brought it up, of course.  In the same vein as her cheesecake.  She would never tell me that she made it for me, but whenever I came back from overseas or after some length of time, I magically had a cheesecake waiting for me during the next coffee hour held at her downstairs bar. 
As an adult, I would ask her what her favorite shows were, and she would answer, “anything with enough sex and violence.”  She ate She-Crab soup when was allergic to it.  She spoke her mind, loudly and sometimes flippantly.  As I grew older, I caught that she loved the drama of it all.  She introduced political discussions when she absolutely knew someone didn’t agree with her politically, mostly to see how they would react.  My impression was that she loved to stir up trouble and punctuate the moment.  And I loved that about her. 


(Part 6 of 8) 
When I was very very small, there was “Grandma’s medicine.”  I’m not sure exactly what it was – probably 1980’s Neosporin – I just remembered that it was a goo that came out of a tube when I was roughly five years old.  I don’t even remember what sparked its use.  But, from that mystery period onward, and for a long while, my sister and I, whenever we got hurt, wanted “Grandma’s medicine.”   
There were the “rules” of 4909 Lakehurst Dr. that Rachel and I sternly followed like good little partial German descendants: no walking on the white carpet on the upper level of the split-level house.  Grandma once caught us, because she saw our little feet print on the carpet.  I think we got a stern look.  Maybe a stern comment, “. . . .mmm? I see little FOOT prints.  Mmmm?” To remember Grandma and her house, is to remember the rules of not walking on that carpet.  


(Part 5 of 8)
When I first came back with Mom to the States after several years in Germany (I was roughly fifteen or sixteen, I cannot remember exactly), I remember being overly shy and anxious.  Grandma didn’t miss a beat.  She was in a particularly good mood, intrigued by the odd little nomad in front of her, intrigued by the German tendencies I had at the time, and subsequently whisked me around the house, wanting me to try on some old clothes she had saved from when she was young.  She had quasi-cackle/giggled and pulled out old garments from the sixties that I could have imagined her in with her white go-go boots (that I saw in the photographs). 
Much later, there was the time that Mark and I visited Berlin while we were stationed in Stuttgart, and Grandma wanted to hear all about it.  From Berlin, I gave her a call.  She was excited by the phone call.  She wanted to know what Berlin looked like, and if the bombed church was still there that she and Aunt Renate used to play in as kids, and the famous department store, and the roads, and the weather, and the people.  She just kept telling me that, “Gawwwd,” [I could imagine her quick head bob and click of the tongue, with the slight german-fayetteville accent she acquired when excited or tired] the first time she had returned to Berlin after leaving in the early sixties, that she had cried and cried. . . . and she wanted to see how much of it had changed and how much was the same since that last time she had visited.  In a way, at the time, I was the little quasi-German conduit for her, I think, who she wanted to be her eyes to see things the way she had remembered (given my age at the time), despite so many years having passed.  I got the sense she was living a lifetime of memories in that phone call, despite my not knowing what the memories were. 


(part 4 of 8) 
When I think back about the Grandma-punctuations in my life, my mind is a mis-match of memories.  Because I’m a brooder and my moments with Grandma were punctuations and not a daily occurrence,  I caught brief extractions of Grandma that made me think I caught glimpses of different moods and perhaps, a glimpse into different ages and caricatures: wry lobbyist, young giggly and vain schoolgirl, life-long mischief-maker, blips of deep ache and sadness,  a bit of brooding when the moment struck her, some anxiety, debater extra-ordinaire, self perseverance and life preserving adaptation (therefore, a sense of brazen courage), and most of all, aggressive stubbornness.   These affected me in the profound way that a grandchild would be, when and if they ponder over the matriarch of their extended family.  Also, just to be clear, I think she would have scoffed at being called “the matriarch.” 
Once, in my early twenties, I called Grandma because my landlord was trying to take advantage of me in Northern Virginia and I wanted Grandma’s real-estate advice.  She loved the fact I called and she loved the fact there was some drama that she could be part of.  Maybe in switched order.  She wanted daily updates.  She encouraged my letter writing to achieve my objectives.  She wanted me to throw in some sort of demand.  And just so you know, her real-estate advice was sound – we won, and I moved out of that townhouse free of penalty or trouble.  I still remember the cackle Grandma had when she found out that the landlord had decided I (and Grandma) was correct.


(Part 3 of 8) 
In multiple conversations through the years, we shared commentary with each other about being totally new to a country and life, and therefore, not understanding anything around us.  I can’t recall all the exact conversations, but the alien-body feeling I had when I arrived in the US for college, she equated to the alien-feeling she had when she arrived in North Carolina with three kids and a new husband in the 1960s.  When I shared my struggles with learning host-country languages, she then shared, matter of fact-ly, how she had a husband who had deployed, she spoke very little English, and had three young children at home when she first arrived in the U.S., . . . and subsequently learned English on the toilet.  Ten words a day.  It was the only time she had to herself.  She said this in a slight laughing, but firm way.  Kind of like, “shape up kid.  Be smart.  Quit griping.  What else would you read while on the toilet?” Amen, Grandma. 
I chose the scotch during this writing session because I believe Grandma would have respected a moment that called for a drink.    If I wanted to create a really perfect atmosphere, I would have put on some German opera and turned down the lights.  I once told Grandma that I used to like sipping on a glass of red wine in dim light while listening to Ella Fitzgerald or something melancholy.  That’s when I learned she did the same – just with very loud opera. 


(Part 2 of 8)
In order to write this, I took a quiet moment in my apartment. I poured some extremely peet-infused scotch.  It’s a blazing 90+ degrees out in Southern China, the humidity has already engulfed the apartment, my hands have swelled up and turned pink just like Grandma’s and just like Mom's, and the Scotch packs a punch.  I chose the peet on purpose: it reminds me of cigarettes in North Carolina (smoke and heat); and it reminds me of cigarettes in Germany. I have a lot of memories of Grandma smoking cigarettes and leaving them around the house like incense in North Carolina.  I also have a lot of memories of people smoking cigarettes in Germany.  
My growing up in Germany is the thing I think that created the identity behind my relationship with Grandma, since honestly, I was a grandchild that just floated in and out of her life, too.  Also, to tie it back to the cigarettes, when Oma died, and I was with Grandma during the days leading up to the funeral, one of her biggest gripes in between the sadness was that no one could smoke anywhere in Germany anymore.  Not even in bars.  Grandma was deeply annoyed by this fact. 


Grandma Memories in 8 Parts
(Part 1 of 8)
“What is that LOOK? I saw that LOOK.” Grandma, Mom and I were sitting outside Grandma’s house, in the enclosed sunroom/patio, sitting around the table.  “Don’t think I didn’t catch that.”   Grandma caught my look.  She might have had a cigarette in one hand – although, to be quite frank, I’m not sure if this was before or after she had stopped, because so many memories of Grandma had that cigarette incense in her hand.  Her perfectly manicured nails stuck out from hands that would swell slightly in the humidity – all of us through Grandma and Mom’s line have that particular trait;  her brightly painted toenails in gold embossed sandals stuck out from her white capri pants; and finally, her eyes keenly perceived me with those dark-dark irises, from under French-inspired bobs, with her particular way of drawing a black eyeliner across the upper lid.  “Mmhmm.  You gave me a LOOK. Don’t think I didn’t notice it.”  
Grandma was a punctuation in my life.  Just in the way I grew up –nomadic--I did not have the opportunity to spend a ton of time with her during my developing years.  Christmases or Thanksgivings – most of these, I did not spend even in the United States, let alone North Carolina.  As an adult, I meandered in and out of North Carolina like Mary Poppins with a bad sense of direction or a bad sense of the weather, never knowing when I’d come back, how long I would stay, or if I would visit at all.  When I did arrive at family social events, I was and am forever awkward and anxious, quietly observing things around me and not quite being able to catch on to the history of memories that are being reminisced.    But even still, Grandma was a punctuation in my life.  And most importantly, she caught my LOOKs.  


We laid Hannelore Huggins to rest yesterday, 11 May 2020.  Whether she realized it or not she had a huge impact on many lives.  Hannelore completely  enjoyed stories and the drama associated with them but that kept her engaged and tracking her many friends and family.  She always wanted to know what was going on with everyone.  Her pointed opinions and comments, whether personal or political touched many.  Hannelore you are loved, will remain in our thoughts, prayers, and hearts always, and will be truly missed.  

Just a few words to convey memories of my mother-in-law, Hannelore Huggins.  The strongest memories I have of Hanna is that of someone who was engaging, loved the daily drama of life, and was often very impulsive - in an endearing way.  Many holidays were spent with gathered family members and her life long friends at her famous "bar" where stories were shared, opinions expressed, and memories were made.  Being a Michigander by birth, I learned a great deal about North Carolinian life as well as life in and around US Army Special Forces at that bar.  It was a special place.  Those times of laughing and talking will forever be a part of me as will my impish and caring mother-in-law; Hannelore Huggins.  May you find rest and peace with Sam and catch up on all the drama that I'm certain is flowing inside God's heavenly gates.  Farewell Hannelore.

OBITUARIO

Hannelore Ingrid Huggins

1 febrero, 1942 – 23 abril, 2020

Reeves Funeral Home

Muestre su apoyo

Comparta Un Recuerdo

Comparta
Un Obituario

Obtenga actualizaciones

Servicios