I interviewed my grandmother Susi on camera before her death, when I was 14. A few weeks ago I logged that footage into my computer, letting it run as I worked in another room; I could hear her voice—and it was so much more familiar than I remembered. It surprised me how vividly images of her house sprung up in my mind and how strongly they captured me. I wrote a list: the long tufts of grass peeking from between the rough concrete squares in her garden, the tree with the wonderful leaves, the lemon tree, the smell of the house, the taste of chocolate ice cream, the chex-mix and coffee-bean-chocolate in jars. It’s funny because reading that list now, I can’t figure out which tree had the wonderful leaves and find it unexpected that, of all things, I thought of the lemon tree. I had grown used to hearing her voice in her house, and hearing it from my computer now, it seemed as if she was next to me.
She and Leonard suddenly seemed close . . . as when we had once interacted and I heard Susi’s voice and she was part of my life. I felt they weren’t so far off. My dad was telling me of Leonard’s taxi-driving, how he drove like a lunatic. But that’s not far from how my dad drives, and I could picture Leonard in that seat as a father, swinging through the streets. Why had a frail, sad image of Susi and Leonard engrained itself in my mind and become permanent? Susi in these tapes didn’t look as weak as I had remembered—instead she was tolerant and good-humored and animated, reminding me a lot of my dad. I would add that Leonard, too, was not how I’d pictured, that he was tall and strong even in his old age; but I’m not sure if that was the case.
And as I watched the tape of Susi today, I was surprised at her energy. When the setting changed, however, and she sat in her room, the sad realization emerged that my memory had been correct to a degree. In this indoor footage I could see Susi’s frailty: her tiny shoulders and spare white hands, her messy hair and papery neck. Though she exuded strength in her character and though she made clear that life would not fade until she was ready, her body was weak.
Memory and reality is echoed and bounding, softened as it approaches and moves. The material and relied-upon facts, or what I viewed them to be, were based on my memory and skewed. With distance, the echo’s calmed, and mingles with emotions. I won’t picture Susi as bearing the weight of this last image… of her frailty and weakness. There are too many different images to rely on one. It makes most sense to me to imagine the feeling she creates—with her voice and the bright warmth and eagerness in her face. Also—I remember which tree had the wonderful leaves now and I can’t believe I didn’t connect it before: they weren’t so much leaves but bunches of tiny dried petals that floated away in flocks when squeezed.
A few clips of Susi are below:
