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Betty White’s recent passing at such an advanced age has haunted my reverie. I've found myself repeatedly daydreaming about my meemaws. 

Loaded with Betty’s brand of energy, both my grandmothers, maternal and fraternal, dug into life with gusto straight into their 90s. Both were captivating characters with inbuilt charisma. Loving, lovable but with highly dissimilar styles.

Believe me, my two meemaws were never invited to do their meemawing at the same festivity in our family. They barely knew each other, thank God. 

Mom’s mother, Wilhelmina, exuded sophistication; Dad’s mother, Eartha, oozed folksiness. Wilhelmina favored exotic pets and elegant ballroom dancing; Eartha rescued mutts and adored chip-kickin’ hoedowns. 

A domestic goddess of the highest calibre, Wilhelmina would have awed the likes of a Martha Stewart. 

Way back when, I took my fiancée Kari to meet Wilhelmina. We were seated at an impressive table with elegant decor.

“Grandmother reigns as the queen of homemaking and etiquette,” I announced. 

Instead of shyly saying Oh, stop, Steven, You’re embarrassing me, Grandmother Wilhelmina, winked and  said: “Oh, honey, keep going! You’re so on target.”

“In some circles, Grandmother is better  known as Emily Post Jr.,” I continued with a twinkle.

Without missing a beat, Wilhelmina laughed and deadpanned: “You’re making it sound like Emily was my mentor. She was my protégé.”

We laughed, then Kari said, “Damn, these hors-d’oeuvres rate as delicious as they do beautiful.” 

“Language!” Wilhelmina uttered. Kari’s face crimsoned.

Softening the mood, Wilhelmina sweetly issued a thank you dear to Kari for the compliment. Then she  picked up a tiny bell and rang for her teenaged assistant to bring us the first course. 

Kari looked bewitched, bothered and bewildered. For me, the expression la-di-da leapt to mind.

When I took my Kari to Granny Eartha’s house, tantalizing aromas permeated within the down-home atmosphere. No hors-d'oeuvres within 10 miles of her table. Eartha laughed off hors-d'oeuvres as “horse’s ovaries.”

We kids were expected to be on our best behavior at Grandmother Wilhelmina’s house but when we traveled to Granny Eartha’s, we got to let our hair down.

Granny Eartha had a dinner bell herself, but ‘twas totally unlike Wilhelmina’s tiny, pretentious bell. Eartha clanged her tarnished bell just to be a rascal and shouted, “Come and git it!” Loaded for bear with at least 14 courses, her table may have looked a bit unbalanced, but her food tasted supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

And the chatter around Eartha’s dinner table differed significantly from Wilhelmina’s formal conversations: “Have ya heard the latest? Buddy Holly got into a plane crash today. Killed him deader than a hammer.” 

Radiating with glitz and glam, Grandmother Wilhelmina traveled to tropical lands. When home, she attended societal luncheons, operas, symphonies. 

God love her, Grandmother Wilhelmina lived high, wide and handsome. When she died, everyone felt horrible — she’d squandered their inheritances. 

Granny Eartha scoffed at status symbols. Her idea of a successful person had nothing to do with their wealth or their prestige. She measured success by a person’s level of happiness.

Granny Eartha regarded societal luncheons as a bad food/snobby company combo. Operas were places where your butt became numb as you tortured yourself to eternity, waiting for the damn fat lady to sing. And, in her mind, the word “phonies” filled a big chunk of the word “symphonies.” 

The funnest traveling Granny Eartha did was to a bingo parlor. Grandmother Wilhelmina wouldn’t have been caught dead at a bingo parlor. Eartha thrived on the game’s excitement — but even more so on the banter she engaged in.

When I arrived early to drive her home from bingo, this is an example of what I’d overhear:

A lady seated across from Granny blurted out: “McDermot’s  dead.”

“Good! Who’s he?” Granny uttered.

“Oh, Eartha. You remember him, don’t you? McDermot. He’s the screwy Louie who always stood on his roof t’ git a better view of a tornado.”

“Oh yeah. Now I know who you mean. I saw his picture in the paper. A long, thin drink of water — all mouth and Adam’s Apple. What the hell can you expect from a goof like that?” 

Oh, how I miss my meemaws. One was wild, one was mild, but I’m really not sure which was which.

— Steve Eskew

Thank God liberal arts courses are so easy. Even retired businessman Steve Eskew received a pair of master’s degrees in both dramatic arts and communication studies from the University of Nebraska at Omaha after he turned 50. When asked to take over a professor’s theater column at The Daily Nonpareil in Council Bluffs, Iowa, Steve began a career as a quasi-journalist. Narrowly by the luck of the Irish, this led to numerous publications, including theater and book reviews, profiles and Steve’s favorite genre, humor writing. Check out his new humor blog, ESKEWPADES.