I rarely write about my private life in the column. This is an exception. I went to my first graveside funeral last month, for my grandmother, Nelyphthia (“Nellie”) Clark Humphrey, 92. (“Nelyphthia” came from a fictional ancient-Greek character in a novel grandma’s mother had read.)
The bus to Tacoma is called the “Seattle Express.” It swiftly jaunted down I-5 to the downtown Tacoma transit mall. Inside the Pierce Transit info center, I overheard a clerk advise two foreign visitors to take the Seattle Express (“There’s nothing in Tacoma to see. Everything’s in Seattle”). Back outside, I paid silent respects at the former UPS Law School building–previously the Rhodes Bros. department store, where my grandmother worked for decades in the employees’ cafeteria. Grandma ranted a lot about how the Tacoma Mall had killed downtown. She was feisty and argumentative when she wanted to be, which was often. Sometimes I’d wished she wasn’t, like when she spouted common-for-her-generation tirades against blacks and Mexicans. I know you’re not supposed to talk about people’s bad parts when they’ve just gone, but she wasn’t strict about the social graces so in a way I think she’d understand.
Anyhow, two buses later I was at Captain Nemo’s restaurant on Bridgeport Way, to rendezvous with several relatives including my cousin who looks just like Marie Osmond (she’d probably appreciate the comparison, even though her religion differs from Osmond’s Mormonism). Got the typical “Todd, you’ve gained a few” remark from an aunt pretending to mistake me for my younger brother. The conversation I’d interrupted was about the differences between the moods at evangelical vs. Baptist church services. These relations on my father’s side are real Tacoma people, Caucasian non-military subtype. Theirs is a world defined by church, angel books, QVC products, RVs, movie-star gossip, and all-American food. If you really are what you eat, I come from a long line of apple pie with Cool Whip, cottage cheese, canned string beans, Tater Tots, and margarine.
A short caravan brought us to the New Tacoma Cemetery. Grandma had been declining for several years, so when I served as a pallbearer there wasn’t much to lift. I’d always seen her as old and scrawny; I was surprised to see on display a photo of her young, as full-cheeked as I, without the frown of Edwardian disapproval I’d always seen on her.
Thirty-three people gathered for the brief service, conducted by grandma’s chapter of the Eastern Star, a women’s Masonic order. Five elderly women took turns describing how grandma’s life represented each of the points on Eastern Star’s five-colored logo, each representing the virtues of a different Old Testament woman.
Afterwards, I was taken aside by two who looked far younger than their real ages and who exuded way too much life energy to be related to me. Turns out they were the daughters of my late grandfather’s sister and her husband, whom I’d known as a kid as Uncle Joe. They told me how, as kids, they’d known my parents before they were married and how much in love they seemed to be.
They also talked about their dad. Uncle Joe ran the Shell station at 3rd & Lenora that was razed circa ’72 for Belltown’s first condo tower. We visited his beautiful house in the hills above Carkeek Park every Christmas when I was little. The last time, I still remember entering into a spirited conversation with him about just what was “Platformate,” the mystery gas ingredient Shell was plugging that year. (He knew what it was, or at least gave a convincing lie.) He seemed to enjoy the chat, but afterward my dad scolded me for my untoward behavior. The cousins assured me Joe undoubtedly did enjoy the talk.
In my head, I’d always resisted the heredity-as-destiny theory. But deep down, I’d quietly feared I was fated to end up just like grandma, all bitter and grumbling about one thing or another, with little room for life’s joys. I’d make some curt remark to a waiter and then wonder if it was a sign of impending grouchhood. Then the memory of outgoing, boistrous Uncle Joe entered my life and gave me hope–until I remembered I was only related to him by marriage.
