mary jennings franz 1921-2014

For more pictures of this wonderful woman, check out this (courtesy of my sister Maggie)

Grandma’s birthday cards were exceptional. Her consistency was awe-inspiring. Every year, without fail. Always on time, never late. They always included a balloon. Sometimes it said, “Happy Birthday,” other times “Save Big Money at Menards” and at least once I received a balloon with a big rubberband on the end. The sturdy kind that you beat against your fist in rapid succession, trying to hold the rhythm. And the $5 bill. Folded inside a tiny Ziploc bag. It was folded so precisely I swear she’d actually ironed it. Sometimes I felt bad spending the $5. Like I ought to frame it. Or store it in a safe with other well-folded items.

The envelopes that housed the cards always had my name written in all caps, with each letter getting its own color, just for an extra splash of class. Red G. Blue E. Green N. Black T. Red Z. Blue Y. I could hear her say, “Hey kid, you’re worth so much to me that I’m going to use 5 pens and spend 6 minutes just writing your name.” Sometimes my name would be followed with an exclamation point. For emphasis. Or maybe to tell me that even if I somehow forgot who I was, she never would.

As much as I looked forward to the relics inside the envelope, it was her words that I most anticipated. Her words always made me proud. As a kid I remember reading them in the Jacksonville Journal Courier’s Letters to the Editor. I loved seeing the name “Mary Franz” in print. Like my Grandma was Jacksonville’s very own Dear Abbey. The only thing I really picked up from her words back then was “blah blah blah society, blah blah blah fornication, blah blah democrats.” But then I got older and began to recognize her cunning confidence with the written word. She did not care who agreed or disagreed with her, she was going to make a strong and compelling case with her written words. And agree or disagree, it was impossible not to respect her skill.

But in her birthday cards politics and personal conviction were set aside and her words’ primary purpose was simply to express genuine adoration. It wouldn’t have mattered if she penned the same thing to all of my cousins that year, what she wrote felt tailor-made for me. She called me by name, Gentzy. She called me kid. She’d make statements about exactly what was happening in my life at that time. Just enough alliteration to catch my attention and engender my respect, but never overly indulgent. I should back up just a minute. The cards weren’t always devoid of her personal convictions. Sometimes she’d sneak in thinly veiled advocacy, like separating birthday into two words and underlining the word birth. So ornery. So clever. So Grandma.

I will cherish the last cards I—and our kids—received from Grandma. She called Zoe, Zoe and Brennan, Brennan, but Ava…Ava was always Ava Jennings. The letters, while still exact and strung together magically to create perfect phrases, were now slightly shaky. And yet never a grammatical error. Never a misplaced apostrophe. Never an ill-advised comma. Like her hair and her scarf and her purple shirt and purple shoes, the words flowed together seamlessly, matching up perfectly, as if to say, “the whole may be greater than the sum of its parts…but only if we’re careful.”   

The last birthday card I’ll ever receive from Grandma arrived this past October, for my 34^th birthday. No balloon or crisply folded $5 bill. Understandable. The card appeared to be made from recycled paper, with a ribbon and several separate, though matching, pieces of cardstock creatively glued to the outside. Maybe it was made by one of Eclectic’s artists. On the inside of the card, the artist included the following aphorism: “Life is not a matter of counting years, it’s a matter of making years count.” These are nice words. I take comfort in them. They remind me of grandma. And the counting reminds me of Grandpa. How true it was of their well lived lives. They count so much to me. They were so easy to count on in life, because I always felt like I mattered. Like I counted.

As nice as those words are though, they weren’t Grandma’s. Grandma’s shakily etched though steadily crafted words wrapped around the artists', encompassing them. Overshadowing them. Some words in all caps. At least two different pens. Several, though not too many, exclamation points. Carefully customized and considerate. Just for me. And at the end, the last written words she would share with me were these: “And your electric essence lingers on, though your body strays to other realms from time to time.” So mystical. So clever. So Grandma. I imagine that whatever realm Grandma has strayed to, they have pens there. Lots of different colored pens. And I am sure that when she finds the pens, she’ll sit down, thoughtfully compose her words, and then find a way to send them to us, from time to time.