Sad News

It was 6:15 in the morning when my phone rang.  "Hey dad," I said.  "Beck, I have some sad news," he replied.  But I already knew.  Your father doesn't call you at 6:15 in the morning on a Wednesday to tell you that he's got a clipping for you from the Wall Street Journal or to ask if you're interested in going to lunch.  And just the night before, my mother had called to give an update.  They would be calling hospice; there was nothing left for the doctors to do.  It's fitting, really, that she would make her exit before that piece was finalized.  It would be like Gran to say, "Oh, there's no need for you to go to all that trouble.  I'm fine."

And she is now.  Fine, that is.  After nearly two years apart from my grandfather, her husband of sixty-six years, she's probably as happy as she'll ever be: by his side, watching the people she loves from above.

I cried less this morning than I thought I would.  Perhaps because I wasn't surrounded by family, who would only remind me of how much I already missed her.  Perhaps because I'd already begun grieving the night before, clutching the unsuspecting cat to my chest as I sat on the floor and wept.  My hero, the woman I aspire to be, would soon be gone, and the world would never be the same without her.

Because she was an incredible woman.  Truly the kindest, most genuine, sincerest, and most loving person you had ever met.  She was service-minded.  She was strong and independent and determined.  She never said a bad thing about a single person.  She never raised her voice.  She loved deeply, and she spoke rarely.

Up until recently, I didn't know a lot about her beyond what I saw each time we visited, and knowing that she was getting older, I made an effort to talk to her more and more.  Last Easter, I sat beside her one-on-one as we ate lunch in the side room, and after a basic exchange about my life and hers, I went for it and asked, "So, Gran...do you have any good stories from your childhood?"  To which she smiled and responded politely, "No, not really."

She never liked to call attention to herself, no matter what was happening.  She went through chemo multiple times, but you'd never know it.  When she broke her hip and we visited her in the hospital, I had just sprained my ankle, and she kept saying that I should be the one getting checked out, not her.  Her memory wasn't great at that point, but I truly believe that even on her best mental day, she would've found some way to make someone else's small thing bigger than her big one.  She had a way of making everyone feel important, of making everyone feel welcome.  She wasn't a big hugger, and she didn't say "I love you" often, but there was never a question.  She loved you.  She loved you immensely.  She thought of you always.

I spent most of my day today distracted, and I was grateful for it.  The ten year olds and their mountainous molehills kept me busy at work, but it was harder at home.  I went running after school, and I cried intermittently along the way, thinking about how much much I would miss her laughter, her sweetness, her occasional and unexpected quips.  About the times she showed her mischievous side, like at Christmas when she fed a dog crab bisque on the sly and kept quiet when he was scolded for begging.  About the times she made me feel special, like one Thanksgiving when she pulled me into her bedroom and gave me a ring that her mother, a Margery like the both of us, had given to her.  About the way she would always ask how you were and offer you food and something to drink.  About the fact that I had received a birthday card in the mail from her today, just an hour before, and how much I wanted to call and thank her.  About the fact that I couldn't visit her anymore, and that I probably wouldn't see her house many more times even though it was my favorite place in the world.  About the fact that my phone would remind me again next week to write her a letter, as it did every week, and she wouldn't be home to receive it.


Tonight, my parents, sister, brother, and I met at Panera for an impromptu dinner out as a family.  Someone had asked me at work today how my father was faring, and I thought about it as I watched him order a single cup of soup and sit quietly along the edge of the table as we conversed.  We avoided the subject mostly, opting instead to talk about the way my sister used to resent my brother's existence as usurper of her role as baby, about the time my brother ran open-mouthed into an azalea bush and the other time he fell through a seat-less chair, about the different ways each of us tattled as kids, about the good and/or humorous-in-retrospect things we'd experienced.  By the end of dinner, a long one by our standards, even dad had joined in, dropping terrible puns and laughing at all the ridiculous things said.  It wasn't anything special--just a dinner at a more-expensive fast food place--but it seemed like an appropriate way to honor Gran.  She would've loved to have been there, sitting back and laughing along with us.  And maybe she was, in spirit.  Maybe she'll always be.  Laughing like she always did.  Loving like she always did.


Below is a copy of her obituary, which will likely teach you just as much about her as I learned upon reading it.  Of course, I've always known the only thing that every really mattered: she loved and was loved, and we would not forget it.

Rest in peace, Gran. We miss you already.

Margery Ogden Johnson "Tyke" Olinde

Tyke, a longtime resident of Baton Rouge, LA, passed away peacefully at her home on Wednesday, January 4, 2017, at age 88. Born in New Orleans on July 11, 1928, she was a graduate of University High, class president and active in numerous civic and scholastic clubs. In 1948, she graduated from LSU where she was President of her Sorority, President of Alpha Lambda Delta Honorary Sorority, a member of the Student Council and Mortar Board. She worked briefly as a social worker before turning her attention to raising her family and volunteer work. She was a founder and Board Member of the Greater Baton Rouge Area Food Bank, where she received the Legion of Merit Award, member of LSU Foundation, Elder and Deacon in University Presbyterian Church, President of Church Women United, member of Junior League, PEO, The Literary Club, volunteer of "Reading Friends" in schools, driver for FISH, recipient of "Giving Back Something" Award, Excalibur Award of Outstanding Activing, Volunteer Activist Award, and the University High Hall of Fame. She exemplified grace and was always a kind, caring and loving soul, evidenced by her many volunteer activities. She was preceded in death by her beloved husband of 66 years, Joseph Beauregard "JB" Olinde and her parents Andrew Robinson "AR" Johnson, Jr., and Margery Ogden Johnson and her brother Andrew Robinson Johnson, III. She is survived by her seven children – Elsie Marie Olinde Bleich and husband Joseph, of Ruston, LA, Joseph Beauregard Olinde, Jr. and wife Cheryl of Baton Rouge, LA, Dr. Andrew Johnson Olinde and wife Tereasa, of Baton Rouge, LA, Thomas Humphrey Olinde and wife Cheryl, of Baton Rouge, LA, John Francis Olinde and wife Nancy, of New Orleans, LA, Elizabeth Olinde Coleman and husband Robert of Fairhope, AL, and Margery Katherine Olinde Belcher of Baton Rouge, LA. She has 21 grandchildren and 24 great grandchildren. She is survived by her sisters, Sally Sunshine Johnson Terry and husband William, and Francis Johnson Gillison and husband William. Pallbearers will be Benjamin Bleich, Emily Olinde Boudreaux, Andrew Olinde, Olivia Olinde, Elizabeth Olinde, Christopher Olinde and Ashley Belcher. The family would like to thank caregivers, Dr. Burke "Jay" Brooks, and Tonya Ghoram and team. Visitation at University Presbyterian Church, 3240 Dalrymple Dr., Baton Rouge, Saturday, January 7, 2017, from 9:00 am until religious services at 11 am followed by a graveside service at Roselawn Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to University Presbyterian Church, The Greater Baton Rouge Food Area Bank, The Lauren Savoy Olinde Foundation (LSO), or a charity of your choice .