A tribute

When I was young my biggest role model was my grandmother. She was the epitome of stylish chic. Sophisticated, well-spoken, and educated, she had a certain allure around her, that I think few women of today possess. She was of course born in a different era, devoid of sexual exploitation, or at least on the surface. A world that lived by moral codes, where a gentlemans agreement was worth its weight in gold, and men and women lived in an interplay garded by strict rules of conduct. My grandmother, Margit, was born the same year Titanic sank, in 1912. It must have been common in those days to refer to important events in context to another even more important event, because whenever her date of birth came up in conversation it was mentioned in the same breath as Titanic.

My grandmother’s life was not as disasterous as the famous passanger liner. In fact she came from a rather wealthy family, that owned race horses, factories and vacation houses. She was also incredibly beautiful. That is perhaps what I recall most, her sheer presence and beauty, which had the ability to master any room or situation she found herself in. Perhaps some of these memories are made up from my own all to vast fantasy. Perhaps they come from the many stories my mother told of her, because in fact I was only 5 years old when she died. Whatever the truth, it doesn’t really matter. My grandmother has taken the lead in my own cavalcade of women I have the greatest admiration for. She’s up there with the Pompadours, Marie Antoinettes, Queen Elisabeths and Jean D’Arcs of this world.

For a woman of that time, she was incredibly astute, knowing how to take advantage of the society she lived in. She worked in the hospital as a physiotherapist and later rose to leading this team. That’s where she met my grandfather, an improbably handsome man who was a pediatric doctor. She used to run into him in the corridors and as self asure as she was, struck up a conversation. Like an old film rolling in front of my eyes, I can conjure up images of love at first sight. Or a least that’s what I’d like to believe. They married the year after they met, and after a few years of not being able to conceive, adopted my mother from a war torn Finland. That’s another story in itself.

My grandfather was the love of my grandmother’s life. When he died, in 1942, having his car demolished from a train crash, my granmother was devestated. She never remarried, and as far as my mother new never had any other men in her life, despite the long procession of suiters. My grandmother loved to party, and when she died she left two wooded trunks full of gala dresses, furs, crocodile shoes and handbags. Every girls dream. I used to play with them until my mother decided they were too ruined by moths, so one day they were gone.

But the mementos are within me. The image of a strikingly vibrant lady, smoking cigarettes with a black, slim cigarette holder, her presence faintly giving off a trace of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue.




my mother and grandmother