“It Is What It Is,” A Granddaughter’s Tribute
This personal story was initially written for and read aloud at the Writer’s Read event dedicated to stories of aging (October 2022).
On Wednesday, September 6, 2023, at 91 years old, Debbie (Tamburr) Yodlowsky gracefully drifted on to her next adventure. Dukie, our “little lady,” my maternal grandmother, my tiny pal, my ever-chic angel — what an honor it has been to walk you towards your next dance.
“It is what it is.”
My grandma recited these words in an almost song-like way. She punctuated them with a subtle smile and a smooth sip from her glass of red wine. My dad, her son-in-law, would say, “A little more, Duke?” as he was already pouring… just a little more. She rarely drank more than one glass in a night anyway, but I loved the intention of drawing it out.
“Alright, just a little.”
To us, she’s Dukie. I can’t exactly remember how or why, but my grandpa referred to her as the Duchess, making us laugh, making it stick.
My mom’s mom, my grandma, Duchess, Dukie, is barely 5 feet tall, but she’s a force. We wondered if her feet could even lay flat. She was only ever wearing heels; even her slippers had height! Yet she was always running around, keeping up with us, if not taking the lead. Once, while playing hide-and-seek, my brother and I could not find her anywhere. After searching high and low, we looked down the long hallway of our then ranch-style house to find her calmly swaying in the rocking chair.
There was that smile, child-like almost, pleased with herself.
According to my mother, I know Dukie was a tough one herself. But she was playful in her role as a grandma. When I was small enough, I would prance around her pristinely organized closet, trying one pair of size-5 shoes after another. As I grew older and my feet larger than hers, we moved on to the jewelry hidden in her vanity. I was mesmerized by the way her little hands would dig into the space between the cushion and the stool, revealing boxes and bags of accessories. I spent hours touching every single piece.
Open, admire, wonder, cherish, close, repeat.
My mom would ask her, “Why don’t you give her a piece you can see her enjoy?” Dukie snapped back, “She can have them when I’m gone!”
Oy. The drama!
But even then, I knew I would always want her more than her things. I didn’t know or care what was real vs. costume. I was struck by the sparkling gems of imagination, love, and curiosity while breathing in the subtle scent of Dukie’s Shalimar and Poppy’s Polo. She would run in and say, “OK, OK, OK, it’s time!” Clean-up always felt like it came too soon. Each time, we packed everything away, box by box, a puzzle of trinkets.
Dukie taught me how to put things back the way I found them, and, when possible, better than that.
I eventually understood how the abandonment of Dukie’s father affected her and how a deep pain like that gets carried along, projected, even. At a very young age, she learned to fend for herself. There is always a hint of mischief with her. She was smart as a tack, with a strong opinion, and a fierce eye for design. “That’s sharp,” she would say, with a quick nod.
And now, our Dukie is 90 years old, living in a memory care center within walking distance of my parents. I know she is not as sharp. But our memories are. Only a couple of years ago, she glided down the aisle at my wedding, waving to her longtime fans, while Poppy enjoyed the show from up above. As Dukie and I danced, her art-deco earrings swayed along as they hung from my ears.
I know that her time is passing more and more quickly. But that fire in her still flashes, and not surprisingly, when we least expect it. Once-broken hips and all, she’ll cross those little legs, and lean forward, stringing the words together just so.
“It is what it is,” she reminds us, with that slightly raised brow and sparkle in her eye, forever keeping us on our toes.
It’s no wonder she always favored a heel.
My sincere gratitude to our family, friends, and beautiful “admirers,” the ones who may not have known this Little Lady personally, but absolutely felt they did. What a small and enormously beautiful thing, just like her. Don’t ever doubt the light your life will leave with others.
xx dd
