about grandma

July 4, 1989

Dear Dad,

I wanted again to express to you how sorry I feel about Grandma's death. It was news that I knew would come sooner or later, but it was still difficult to be philosophical about losing her. Laura and I feel very sad not to be able to look forward to visits with Grandma. We also had dreamed that she might have been able to see her first grandchild.

Since meeting Laura, she tells me how often I retell childhood stories that take place at Grandma's house – how much she influenced us as children. I think her influences as a collector of children's books, a legacy that she left to us through your devotion to reading to us as children, has had a major impact on my life.

It may seem strange, but as I think of how to encapsulate my feelings about Grandma, I keep coming back to a certain memory that doesn't even take place in Iowa City, or have anything to do with Grandma herself. I vividly remember my first reading, as a boy, of Truman Capote's A Christmas Memory. I found the book on our shelves at home – I don't know whose it was. I remember sitting down in the living room on a winter evening, probably around Christmas time, and finding myself absorbed in the story. The friendly woman relative that Capote describes immediately was Grandma to me. I remember how strongly moved I was at his reflections on this remarkable friend, and how I was stirred first by the account of the loss of her dog, and then by the story of her death, pictured as the free flight of a child's kite in the sky. Like the woman in the story, Grandma took the time to fly kites with us.

We miss her.

Along the lines of family information for her obituary, Laura Lee Moseng was born on November 11, 1962 in Madison to Barbara Sue (Bruce) Moseng and Myral Julian (Mo) Moseng. We had our first date on May 19, 1979, and were married on July 2, 1983.

All our love

jim

cemetery

Sunrise. Two distant roosters crow almost simultaneously. The first rays of the orange light begin to criss-cross the green meadow – angular shadows of the leaning grass appear across the smooth granite surfaces on the brightening hillside. The songs of the evening crickets are replaced by the many voices of fluttering birds. From tree to granite slab to bush they fly, making a sea of jubilant music.

Wind now parts the branches of the trees, but is quickly lulled by the radiant sunshine. The last clouds of dawn burn from the sky – all is bright and glowing. The din of distant cattle drifts high in the air with the sweet smell of clover. Farm machinery from beyond the tree-lined glade adds a customary rumble to the morning symphony. Other daily events take their usual turns: a distant auto on a country road, the buzzing of cicadas, silent flight of butterflies, the evaporation of dew from the polished marble monuments with plastic bouquets at their bases.

And yet, a stranger appears in the air – the sputtering of loose gravel and a nearing engine. The birds are silent for a moment. The noise approaches, and its dusty source grinds to a halt just outside the rusting fence and gate. Dust settles, and birds move to higher vantage points. A metallic click, and footsteps from the road are heard, crackling in accumulated leaves - the creaking of the gate and slow footfalls through unmown grass. Minutes pass in silence.

A sniff, a subdued sob, and a white handkerchief is brought to dampened eyes.

Moments later an exit is made, and dust leaves a trail settling along the road. The gate stands open, but soon things fall back into their usual pattern.

By noon all has been forgotten.

6/1/1977

for Terry Mashman's writing class

In memory of Mo Moseng, 1933-2019

-->