Grandma Jo

It's 9:30am and my mother-in-law, Jo, is in the kitchen. She's asked me to call her, again, on her cell phone, after my husband, Hank, downloaded Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody for her ring tone. She wants to hear it again.

I call her. She hums along, then, returns to the orange juice maker. The whirring starts up again. “Orange juice, anyone?”

Is she for real?

Yes. This is my octogenarian mother-in-law of sound mind, who embraces the wrinkles on her face with a dusting of light make-up. Her grey hair is femininely cropped and laced with white.  She wears skinny jeans and tailored shirts. “Tucked in!” My mom says in awe. “She tucks everything in and wears a belt!”

We are on our annual summer trip with Jo in Newport Beach, where she rents a beach house. Our adult children drop in and out depending on their work schedules. They bring with them a slew of their friends who enjoy the surf. The action never stops and Jo is right in the middle of it taking pictures. Everyone affectionately calls her “Grandma Jo,” whether they’re related or not.

But this is no ordinary grandma. 

Jo is eighty-eight going on twenty-two. She’s Internet savvy. She’s on Instagram and often drives two hours just to to be with her grandchildren or to visit her friends in Los Angeles. She’s well read and current on all the latest news.

“How’s Jo doing?” Mom asks when I checked in earlier today on the phone.

“Unbelievable,” I say.

“I hate her,” Mom laughs. “She leaps and dives and runs around. It’s all that Christian Science clean living. She never drank or smoked like me.”

“You had fun, Mom.”

“Sure did. But I’m paying for it now.” Again, she laughs. “And I have no regrets.”

I can hear Jo getting out the cast iron skillet. She’s making her “crispy eggs.” Hank’s favorite.

As soon as that’s served up, she’s making a list for the market and wiping down the counter. I look over at Hank. “You are so lucky. Your mother never ages.”

Jo’s attitude is what keeps her young. She doesn’t resist change. Yet, Jo’s the consummate lady. She’s all about good grammar and napkins in the lap, but can talk surf and navigate a complicated television remote like a pro.

A widow of twenty-two years, Jo has created a full life for herself in Santa Barbara in the home where she has lived for thirty-two years.

My mother-in–law’s i-phone dings as she heads toward the laundry room.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s Ann and Susie (her daughters) figuring out what to bring down here and wanting to know what I need.”

Unreal. My eighty-eight year-old mother-in-law does group chat texting on WhatsApp...

Jo has told me to make sure to tell her if I see a spot on her clothes. “It reminds me of my mother’s friend, Alma. She had spots all over her clothes when she got old. Don’t let that happen to me.”

I promised her that I would, but doubt it will ever be an issue.

Like her grown children, I have become accustomed to her vitality and agelessness. I think nothing of her traipsing up the beach with our son, Joe, after watching him surf for two hours.  Or reading the instructions for Hank’s new drone.

The kitchen is tidy now and Jo bustles about the beach house, moving up and down the steep spiral staircase, wearing her favorite fresh white Converse sneakers - her shoes of choice - with jeans and a crew neck sweater. Her late mother’s gold “S” chain (that she never takes off) catches the light from the large picture window.

After I’d called her cell phone this morning so that she could hear Queen’s tune again, she told me that she wants a Christian Science Hymn, The Lord’s Prayer, and Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody played at her memorial when the time comes.

Somehow, I’m not too worried about that just yet.