Betty Jean (Grandeen) Neece

A few months after my papa died in 2017, I was on the phone with my grandma Betty. It was probably a weekday evening, just after supper, both winding down for the night. The conversation was naturally wrapping up and I sighed loudly and said, “grandma, do you know how much I love you?” I could hear her smile on the other end as we sat in silence. “No, but do you know how much I really love you? Can you feel it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, okay then.”

In the last five or so years of her life, Betty dealt with significant memory loss. In a way, we were all grieving a living person as we started to have conversations with her that resembled nothing of the conversations we were so used to. We all got trained on how to handle this by nurses and doctors: go along with it, don’t agitate the patient, don’t ask too many questions. Play nice.

There was one time I was sitting with her when she turned to me and said, “Oh, don’t you remember that party we threw that one weekend in 1982?! And you had all those young kids. But it was such a nice party. Wasn’t it?” I was so touched that I could resemble a person who brought such a positive memory to her. I nodded and smiled and said, “We had the best time, didn’t we?” She smiled back at me and said, “But too many people…”

My grandma was gifted tremendous loyalty - which makes sense, as she dished it out just as easily. She was never alone, not even in the end. I’m in awe and honored by my aunts who sacrificed much to protect her dignity and provide her immeasurable, exhaustive grace.

We all had the unique yet heartbreaking privilege to sit vigil with Betty. She was visited by pastors, had phone calls pressed to her ears from old friends, and many, many messages of prayers, compassion, and joyful memories shared. It is incredibly difficult to describe this experience with words or at all, but the moments I was able to sit alone with her, in her bed, looking in her beautiful big eyes and communicate with sly smiles and her hand squeezing mine so tightly - they are etched into my soul forever.

A few days before her funeral, I was sitting outside with Evan and I said to him in a sing-song-y voice, “if Betty sent me a little cat right now I wouldn’t be mad! A little black cat walking right out from the woods, I would just scoop it right up!”

A few days ago, look who was standing outside our door:

We fed and watered him, and he came back the next night too. We’re keeping a healthy distance, for now…but I’m still giddy from this.

My dad and I had the honor of representing the family and speaking at Betty’s service. Here is a copy of what I said:

First, I would be remiss to not mention the gratitude I feel for my family for the care that has been provided to our grandma. Specifically, I learned what I know of caregiving through illness from my Auntie Janet, of which my skills have unfortunately been put to the test as of late. But every act of grace and dignity I have grown up witnessing in this family just helps me feel even more solidified in my place in this world, and makes me proud to carry this name, and Betty’s honor. I do believe what we have together is such a rare and precious thing.

Betty was the only grandma I got to have. I lucked out. Some of my earliest memories are of her face, voice, and hands. I hope I never forget her voice. Betty insisted on being the one to teach us grandkids how to read and write. Her investment into me in this way had such a profound impact that it became my livelihood even today. It’s what I went to college for and what I make my living doing. I felt deeply connected to her in this way, often receiving books as gifts from her with little notes in the cover, saying things like “Dear Hannah, I hope you keep reading forever,” or cards in the mail on special occasions saying things like, “Hannah, keep writing! I can’t wait to read what you write next!” Grandma’s house was a safe landing point, where we could read in the tree out front, or read on the couch next to Papa, or walk down to the school playground and read there too.

Betty remained steadfast in her advocacy for my work throughout my entire life, as a poet, a writer, a storyteller – and I can’t emphasize how significant of an impact this has made on me. I love words. And sometimes when I comb back through my life’s timeline close enough, I can almost feel myself on her lap again, on that couch at the house, with that little flimsy book about counting cherries and apples. Her voice strong in my ear and her hand pointing at the page. To feel proud of myself because Betty was proud of me is something I’ll still carry on.

My favorite verse and one that has followed me throughout my life comes from Job chapter 5 verse 7: “yet man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward.” It is known that I have faced challenges and waded through dark waters. More recently, in 2019, right before Betty started having trouble with her memory, I was going through a lot. Typically, I would prioritize calling her and writing her letters weekly, if not more often. But in my own ego and pride, I had been avoiding her due to my own struggles. Finally, one day, I was driving and just pulled over into a gas station parking lot and called her up. She picked up the phone after just a few rings and said, “I knew you’d come around when you were ready.” Her voice was so sure, she trusted me so much. I laid it all out for her and she reminded me I’d figure it out. And I suppose I did. Betty taught me that love is holy because it is like grace - the worthiness of its subject is never really what matters.

I must admit that while these days, my theology is ambiguous at best, some of the moments I have felt closest to the divine in my life have been in the presence of my grandma, in conversation or in silence with her, laying my head on her shoulder or simply enjoying her quiet company. I believe my first encounters with God occurred during those teaching moments as a child where she sat me in front of the woodstove and taught me how to read and write, her voice steady in my ear like my own heartbeat. The fire crackling and eyes glowing. Sparks fly up.

But I don’t want to remember her just as the things that she did for me, and for everyone else, even though those things would make up an infinite list. What I loved about Betty that was so intrinsically her, in my eyes, was how she always filled every room she was in, even if she didn’t say anything. She was like this glowing light just walking around among us. I liked how she could always talk. I like that she could talk to anyone. I like how she never met a stranger. I try to emulate that in everyone I meet too. I like how she did her hair, did herself up. I like how she carried her purse everywhere. I love how much she loved to read and loved to learn, and some of my fondest memories of my life are when she would braid my hair with ribbons in it.

In 2009 my mom interviewed Betty for the Michigan Oral History Project. Betty was 75. There are a few quotes I’d love to share with you, and I’ll make this available digitally, both the transcript and the audio as well, but my mom asked about Betty’s childhood, and she remembered this story:

Betty: My dad, I remember one time and I will never forget it, a girlfriend and I were at the house and we were talking and giggling, we were about eleven or twelve, about something and I don’t know who it was, but probably it was our neighbor girl, because she had long stockings that were baggy and hair that wasn’t so well taken care of, and he, my dad, got up from his chair and he came over and took me by the arm and he took my friend by her arm, and he said, “I don’t ever want to hear you make fun of anyone. Don’t you ever, ever do that?” And that has stuck with me through the years. To this day, I never go after the underdog. He was so held up on that because when he landed in this country when he was getting off the boat on Ellis Island he could not speak one word of English and he could not understand one word of English, he and his friend, had to go to the bathroom, and they were trying to talk to someone on the street, trying to make signs or whatever, “Where is the bathroom, and where to get a cup of coffee, and the people just laughed at them. And he said, “Don’t you ever, ever do that to anyone.”

Later in the conversation, my mom asked Betty, “what do you believe is the key to a successful marriage? You and Harold have been married a long time.”

Betty said: “First, be realistic. You have ideas, hopes, and dreams and you are going to do this and you’re going to accomplish this, and you are going to do whatever. And you have to realize that it is not all going to happen. And you have to be satisfied when things don’t go as you planned. Don’t make a big deal or blame each other for disappointments. You know, like we would never have had this if you wouldn’t have done this or whatever. Most important, don’t spend more money than you have. Last but not least laugh a lot. Don’t make a big deal out of stuff. You have to go with the flow. When you have kids, enjoy the kids. I mean have fun with them and spend time with them. I can say that we have had a lot of fun with our kids when they were little and growing up and we still do.”

At the end of the conversation, my mom asked, “what is one thing you most want people to remember about you when you are gone?”

Betty said, “Well, you know I don’t care if they remember me.”

My mom laughed and said, “You don’t care?”

Betty said, “No. Well, I would wish they would remember that I enjoyed people. I liked being with people and around people and I would like people to remember that we raised pretty good kids, worked hard, paid our bills and never had one check bounce in all our married life. I mean those are just little things but that’s what I would like people to remember. Not that they care if a check bounced or not.”

I’m reminded of this quote from one of my favorite books, Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. A pastor, who is aging and understanding he is soon facing death, is writing letters to his son. He says,

“I’m writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you’ve done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God’s grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle. You may not remember me very well at all…if only I had all the words to tell you.”

My Betty, to me, you have been something more than a miracle.

Our Betty Jean was a true matriarch, a woman I have admired, respected, and adored from the day I was born and will continue to do so long after today. My closeness to her heart feels like protection. She is more than home, she is the thread in our quilt, the light in our lighthouse, the ink in my pen. I love her real and true. May God rest her soul. Thank you.

Again, it is impossible to summarize the impact of this life, this loss. A meteor on my heart. My grief is like quicksand as life pushes me through. But I just wanted you to know about her, and know that we will never stop thinking about her, and that if there is someone in your life who has shaped you, held you, made you even a little better - maybe you can go look outside, at the sky, and see them there today.

Mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?

Can I handle the seasons of my life,

Hannah