Eulogy for Barbara Smith

Last Thursday I had the honor of giving the Eulogy for my grandmother, Barbara Smith, who died on Friday, February 12th less than 2 weeks before her 91st birthday. Barbara was an important force in my life and I spent a very long time walking the streets around my parents house, trying to figure out what I wanted to say. Although I spoke without notes, the following is the closest approximation I can make to what I said in my grandmother’s honor.

I suppose it’s not surprising to any of you that I’ve thought a lot about this moment in the last couple of years. There were so many late night phone calls, so many mad dashes to the hospital, so many doctors who measured the time in days or weeks but never months. They told us to prepare ourselves and we did.

And then Barbara would bounce.

And then she would bounce

And then she would bounce.

Until, the reality of her resilience became more dependable than any prognosis, no matter how dire.

Which is why I find it so suddenly shocking to be standing here today. She was an incredibly powerful force in the life of my family. She drew us all into her orbit through the strength of her character and now that she’s gone, I feel my family spinning aimlessly in the dark and I am left standing here, trying to make sense of the light that has gone.

Her name was Barbara. Let’s get that straight right off the bat. Barbara.

Most of you know the story, that when my sister Kathy was born my grandmother decided that she was far “too young” to be called Grandma or, God forbid, Granny and she continued to be “too young” until the day she died just before her 91st birthday. Sometimes I thought she was younger than me.

She went by some other names too. A few people called her Barb. I used to call her Babs (but never to her face). If you were a waiter in San Francisco you knew you had to step up your game if you saw Mrs. Smith had a reservation that night. But my favorite name, and one that I only heard about a few years ago, was Buzz.

Buzz.

You could see her every once in a while, even in the last months when Barbara was very ill. When Barbara was in the right kind of mood getting just the right kind of attention, (usually from a man) her hips would start to sway and she would smile and make a CLICK CICK sound. And there she was... Buzz

Buzz was the the girl who stole her Dad’s car, snuck into speakeasies and hitched a ride on a barnstorming biplane. I picture her young and fierce and beautiful and maybe just a little bit dangerous-daring the boys to keep up with her and not being too disappointed when they couldn’t but knowing she had found a friend for life when they could.




You can only imagine how proud my grandfather Bob Smith was when she chose him. I wish I could’ve known him better.

My grandmother always seemed to know the right way to do things, whether it was how to bid a hand of bridge or where to get the best deals on linens in Cairo or dishware in Copenhagen. She knew the right way to handle money and how a family was supposed to behave around each other. Maybe that’s why she enjoyed doing needlepoint so much. That’s something I never got. It seemed mind numbingly boring to me. How she could spend hour after hour following those patterns, making sure all those bright colored threads were placed absolutely perfectly?

Barbara knew exactly how things were supposed to be and when the world broke the rules, when a waiter didn’t treat her just right, or a politician misbehaved or her grandson didn’t call her on her birthday, Barbara was hurt, and she was angry and she was somehow betrayed.

I never knew how the world was supposed to be. I’ve always seen the world as grey and complicated, filled with subtle hues, shifting constantly with every change of perspective. But no matter how hard I tried to explain that to her, no matter how hard I tried to show her the world as I saw it, she never could. She chose instead to believe in the world as it was “supposed” to be and that made this strong woman very, very fragile.

My grandmother talked with her eyes closed. You all noticed that, right? Whenever my friends would meet her they would pull me aside after and say, “Hey man. Did you know your grandmother talks with her eyes closed?” And I’d say, “Oh, gee, I never noticed that.”

I mean it’s weird, right?

And I started to wonder. “Where does that come from?” I mean has anybody ever asked her about it. I asked my mom but she didn’t know. No one did.

I mean it really started to bug me. I wanted to grab her and say, “Look at me!!” “See me!!”

Because, you see, although I’ve always known that Barbara loved me there were many times when I thought she didn’t really know me.

But then, how hard have I tried to know her.

All I had focused on was the world she was missing. I never stopped to think about what she was seeing. What movie was playing behind the lids of her closed eyes? What world was she seeing?

Well, first of all, we can be sure that everyone there is impeccably dressed. Every waiter recognizes her and her grandson never forgets to call. Maybe it’s a world where smart girls in the thirties were allowed to follow their fathers into business and accomplish great things. I’m sure it’s a world where she didn’t have to see her husband taken away so early or watch so many of those dear to her die before their time. It must be a place far from the ravages of age and cancer, where the threads of her life are woven exactly as they are supposed to be and the bright vibrant colors of the world never fade.

And there, at the center of it all, buzzing with light, is a beautiful woman. Smart, fierce, joyful... and young.

And that’s how I’ll try to remember her.