The Ghosts of Christmas Past

(I thought this had been posted on New Year’s Eve, but somehow it wasn’t….and it’s another meander through my memories, a leftover Christmas decoration, so enter at your peril….)

If I don’t take down the holly wreath on my door before midnight, does that scupper my lottery win?

I really need a lottery win now as I’m in dire straits, though I realise I only have a marginally greater chance of winning if I bother to buy a ticket than if I don’t. But in America, we believe that if you leave your Christmas decorations up after New Year’s Day, it’s bad luck. We don’t—at least on the East Coast where I lived—observe the 12 days of Christmas and wait until 6 January as you do here in the UK.

I say 6 January, as that seems to be what’s observed, but when you actually count the days, making what I think is a safe assumption that 25 December is the first day of Christmas when the partridge in a pear tree arrives, then surely your last gift of 12 drummers drumming would arrive on 5 January. …But a bit of quick research says that the focus is really 12 days after Christmas, generally considered to begin on Boxing Day (26 December), the feast day of St. Stephen, with the festivities lasting until the day before Epiphany on 6 January, although others start counting from sunset on 24 December, as in centuries past. Then churches add to the confusion by sometimes leaving their decorations up until the following Sunday so they have the crib out for their Epiphany service.

Anyway, growing up in America, the 12 days of Christmas were merely lyrics in a carol. So as soon as Christmas day was over, we’d be keen to get the decorations down and feel as though we never wanted to hear another carol. As we didn’t celebrate Boxing Day, many of us were back at work on 26 December.

One reason we were keen to put Christmas away was we’d be sick of it all by then. We in the States tend to put up our decorations sooner than you do in the UK. The day after Thanksgiving, which is also a ‘bank holiday’, is the biggest shopping day of the year because most people are off work and then realise that, with Thanksgiving out of the way, it’s time to start thinking of Christmas, so they go out and shop like mad in a world full of sales. If someone came home with a Christmas tree on that fourth Friday in November, it would not be absurd, although waiting another week might be more practical needles-wise.

Going to a Christmas tree lot—sizeable ventures that would turn up on designated land each year, with all sizes and types of beautiful Christmas trees—is a regular, exciting part of the Christmas season. Rather different from grabbing a tiny, dead-looking tree fit for a table from the Asda car park, wrapped tightly in netting so you’re basically buying a surprise package, nailed to wooden planks. Everyone I knew always got real trees, the truly noble getting trees you could re-plant.

Indeed, my Grandmother had a whole row of evergreens of varying heights lining the hill behind her house, years of Christmas trees past. And she would have more than one Christmas tree each year, in addition to the the trees out front and all along the deck that were decorated with lights. She had a main Christmas tree in one of the living rooms and another on the screened-in porch (which isn’t like the 4x4 tiny porch I have in London where I can just about shelter from the rain whilst searching for my door keys, but something bigger than my bedroom, with a great view of the gardens on two sides of the house). Her trees would have different themes, and they were stunning yet somewhat Spartan affairs, certainly not the hodge-podges of random decorations collected over the years that my trees were. And never, ever would they have that tacky (as I was brought up to see it) tinsel or strands of silver ‘icicles’. As a result of my upbringing, I find myself allergic to the purple and silver foil decorations that were draped across my office every year.

But my grandmother was the queen of decoration creation, and with a friend developed ‘critters, angels and stars’, even writing a book on how to make them. They were wonderful critters such as reindeer, owls, mice, mini Santa Clauses (celosia for the suit) and angels and stars made only of natural materials that she generally gathered from the road side: teasels, Queen Anne’s Lace, berries, pods. Her decorations were amazing, and my only motivation for getting a Christmas tree in past years when I certainly didn’t have the space or money was to display the many critters my grandmother had sent me, which I will cherish until they crumble.

Critters created by my grandmother, her friend and many volunteers decorated a White House Christmas tree one year when Ronald Reagan was president, and my grandmother appeared on American breakfast television showing Maria Shriver (a Kennedy and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s ex-wife) how to make them. They also appeared on the covers of Time and Newsweek, something of which she was very proud.

Every year, these critters decorated several trees spanning three levels in the excellent Brandywine River Museum in Chadds Ford, PA, which houses a spectacular collection of work by Andrew Wyeth, his son Jamie Wyeth and his father illustrator N C Wyeth, Howard Pyle and a few others. At Christmas, the museum was transformed. Apart from the magnificent critter-decorated trees, one floor of the museum had thigh-high Victorian dolls posing in different wintry scenes, wearing blue velvet coats with big ribbons in their hair. It was charming and Christmassy even if you’re not into dolls.

Even better, the next floor was turned over to model trains at Christmastime. Dozens of model trains traversed the massive round floorplan, through tunnels, past model stations, watched by miniature people and real people, constantly travelling around…it was utterly delightful. At a young age, I decided that once I had a house with a basement (or spare storey lying around), I would also somehow dedicate it to many different model trains, running all the time. Sadly, I’ve not managed it yet; life is unfulfilled.

But the pleasure of seeing these trains, the Christmassy Victorian dolls and the critter trees at the Brandywine River Museum was a big part of my childhood Christmases. Another tradition was to go to an evening church service on Christmas Eve--an earlier Anglican equivalent of midnight mass—and en route, the family would drive its convoy of cars through the Longwood Gardens car park. Longwood, created by a DuPont on farmland once owned by William Penn, was gorgeous by day at Christmas, but at night, outside, the many dozens of trees scattered amidst their ginormous car park were decorated with 500,000 Christmas lights. A parade of cars cruise through each night filled with occupants spellbound by the spectacle, which seems better than fireworks. As a child, I found it particular fun to approach a tree that looked like a Christmas-tree-shaped fir from a distance only to find that it was perhaps an Oak, but with the lights strung in such a way to create an optical illusion. I dearly miss this important tradition of my youth, but it is still there for anyone in the Brandywine River Valley (Pennsylvania/Delaware) to enjoy.

We’d return to my Grandmother’s house for the Christmas Eve celebrations, which for my family were the main sha-bang. Christmas Eve is, after all, full of that magical feeling, that tingly, tangible anticipation, such tremendous excitement that you’d almost reached the most important day of the year. And, when you’re a young kid, you can’t wait to see what Santa brought you.

We de-glamourised things in a hugely consumerist way, in that we grandchildren were tasked with distributing the many, many presents to everyone’s assigned station, mine being a sofa generally bestowed with a huge stack of gifts as I was “easy to buy for”. My grandfather had a certain high-backed chair, my mother a nearby ottoman…..the same places every year. If we came across a gift addressed to “mom” in unfamiliar handwriting (sometimes the gifts were from pets), we’d choose the mom with the fewest gifts, although that often led to bafflement at an inappropriate gift until things were sorted out.

The distribution mission accomplished, with exciting piles of gifts on every chair, we children were then allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve. We would scrutinise our piles and try to select what might be the most exciting gift. It was tremendously disappointing if you wasted your Christmas Eve gift on, say, a summer top or indeed any clothing.

We’d then play Twister, which can only really be played at such a big gathering. No charades for us; I think that’s just an English tradition. It’s odd that there seem to be no photographs of our regular Twister games, relatives stretching oddly across each other to reach certain colourful dots, but then back when film was expensive and one might have to buy separate flash cubes for cameras, then not know ‘til the photos were developed when you finished your film months later if the pictures turned out….well, people took far fewer photographs.

During this family Christmas Eve party, we’d have the main Christmas meal. No turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce for us, as we’d have just had that at the end of November for Thanksgiving. My grandmother would put out a buffet of her various marvellous dishes, the main feature always being tender thick slices of roast beef, which doesn’t interest me as a veggie, but always went down well with the others. For dessert, there were pumpkin and pecan pies—not mincemeat, a description I always took literally so I welcomed its absence. Perhaps this Christmas Eve tradition followed that belief that Christmas began at sunset, but no one ever mentioned why we did things that way.

When it got late, my brother and I would go to our room and try to sleep, although we could hear the grown-ups upstairs still enjoying the party. We would normally wake about 5.30am, and we were allowed to go upstairs to the main part of the house to get our stockings, which we could take back to our rooms and play with whatever we discovered there, leaving the tired grown-ups undisturbed for many hours. As we retrieved out stockings, now leaning against the side of the fireplace as they would be so laden, we could also see what Santa had left. We knew the presents we’d distributed the night before were from family, but obviously, Santa Clause would have come in the night and left the big presents, such as the longed-for electric organ I got once, or skis.

We’d take our stockings downstairs and find them filled with little pocket games and puzzles that we could play with until everyone else woke up, plus maybe magazines or small books, and always candy, particularly an unusual tradition of jewel-coloured hard candy in the shape of boots, which we always had in our stockings, the only time we ate it. Why they were boots, I’ve no idea, and never thought to ask.

Eventually, the adults would wake, and we would begin opening our piles of gifts, carefully recording each one on a notepad so we could write a proper thank you note later. We’d all progress through our piles at the same time as though in a race, but sometimes calling out ‘Oh, I love this! Thank you, Grandmommy!’, or if it was something awful, you could just quietly put it down without offence and move onto the next item. My Grandmother would usually wander around, salvaging any pretty wrapping paper that she might want to reuse (as a pioneer of recycling, she’d also use the front of Christmas cards as gift cards the following year. Mind you, Christmas cards were nothing like as popular over here, and the people who bothered to send them would often just have a photograph taken of the family and let a SnappySnaps equivalent send out the photo postcard with a generic ‘Marry Christmas’ message to everyone they know. Rather cold and too easy, I always thought, although it’s interesting to see how distant people look these days if you don’t often see them.)

We’d then have a subdued brunch, I think with eggs benedict and scrambled eggs, English Muffins—that sort of thing. Friends of my grandmother would pop in to say Merry Christmas and perhaps have some (ugh) egg nog before going on their way, and some years we’d be joined by our cousins, who would have already had a Christmas present extravaganza at my aunt’s house.

And then it was pretty much over. We had no big family meal, all sitting around the table. No, we’d collect our haul and try to jam it into our suitcases. Then my brother and I would head to our father’s house for a more subtle Christmas (with an artsier stocking that might include a Portuguese phrase dictionary and tinned frogs’ legs) with a few more gifts to open, whilst my mother, Grandmother, and Aunt would usually go out for a Chinese meal, as they were the only restaurants open on Christmas, and often catch a film in the afternoon. In the cinema, not on television.

Television played absolutely no part in our Christmases. I remember once going to a pre-Christmas party where my grandmother’s friends put all the kids in a room to watch Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on the telly, but that was the only time I can ever remember seeing any of the goggle box at Christmas. That would explain why, when watching the Andy Williams Christmas Show on BBC4 recently, it was unfamiliar to me although it wasn’t cancelled until I was 8. Telly had no place in our lives during the holidays. Nor did anyone give a thought as to what song topped the charts that week. Why would you?

At my father’s house, we’d sit and read and read in the peace of the day by a roaring fire and gorgeous tree, waiting for the evening meal, which still was not turkey. My step-mother was an artist so the long dining room table was always impeccably, creatively decorated, with baubles, holly, pine cones and even teddy bears featuring in the centrepiece. Everything was beautiful and calm.

After that, we’d return to our lives in North Carolina, and you’d not want to see anything Christmassy again. The decorations would come down, the trees be discarded or replanted. We would not celebrate Boxing Day, although there were still often sales. I remember from my days in retail management that the stores would open early, painfully for the staff on the day after Christmas, and there would often people queuing outside to return unwanted Christmas gifts. Before 8am on 26 December! They were the ultimate Scrooges….

So whilst I can look back and feel a bit disgusted by the consumerist attitude with such a focus on so many, many presents, I mainly feel warm and fuzzy inside when remembering my childhood Christmases. The piney, spicy scents, gorgeous decorations, the warmth and safety of family, the joy of anticipation and the delight when dreams are fulfilled—it was all so stunningly beautiful and stoked my happy Christmas memories for many years. One day, although my grandmother sadly died in April so it will never be the same, but one day, I shall have to go back to Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, just to see Longwood and the Brandywine River Museum at Christmas. They always will be a huge part of Christmas for me, even from so far away in distance and time.

The Outstanding Elizabeth Taylor Dean

I wasn’t remotely interested in the Royal Wedding, and even less so because of all the ridiculous hype in the media beforehand, telling us how fascinated we were about who might have designed the dress and whether there had been a rehearsal. But I watched the event, and I watched it wearing jeans with my Grandmother’s pearls. I think she would have loved to have seen it, but tragically she died suddenly a few weeks earlier. I flew home to the States for her funeral—well, it was a Celebration of Her Life—and everyone kept asking me what I thought about The Wedding. America was much more thrilled about it than those of us who had to pay for it.

I remember that I was staying with my Grandmother in 1981 when she convinced me, then an apathetic teenager, that I should get up at five in the morning on my summer holidays to watch a television broadcast of a wedding of English people I didn’t know. She infused enthusiasm about its potential magic, saying seeing the heir to the British throne marry was a once-in-a-lifetime event, which in the end it wasn’t, particularly if you include his second wedding. But those words do pain me now, as I’m all too aware that what I see as her premature death meant that she missed this second-in-a-lifetime event on this scale, and I would have loved to have discussed it with her, as she would have enjoyed it—just as I had surprisingly ended up enjoying the Charles and Diana wedding, as she predicted. So I wore her necklace so that she could be with me as I watched this time, but of course it wasn’t as fun as if she had been delightfully, tangibly present.

I spoke a fortnight ago at the Celebration of Her Life, which was held at the Brandywine River Museum in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, where she volunteered and was involved in many ways for much of her adult life. It was comforting to be holding it there, and kind of the Museum to let us do so. I wish that I had taken advantage of the chance to wander through the galleries of Wyeth paintings, which I had grown up around, even though they’ll never be the same without my Grandmother beside me enlightening me about each one. But I was too worried about the fact that I would be the second person to speak yet had not once read through what I’d just finished writing moments before we left for the service, and that it was trapped on my iPad and I was terrified of the technology going wrong as I read it from said gadget. (In the end, the only struggle was having to read it in small single-spaced font as there seemed no way to adjust that—oh, and the whole thing disappearing completely for a moment while I was speaking, but happily it returned).

The evening went beautifully, and there was an amazing turn out despite the terrific storms that night, which locally brought down huge trees that blocked bridges and which caused terrible damage further south. Particularly considering that many of the guests would have been what I once might have described as elderly—that’s a confusing term given my grandmother’s youthfulness up ‘til her death at 93—it was heart-warming.

I thought I’d reprint what I said here, perhaps foolishly as I keep my (neglected) blog private from those I know or see, who are the only people who have asked to read what I said, and I like to remain anonymous here but will use my Grandmother’s real name. Do bear in mind that I had to write it in a truly mad rush and was under pressure to cut out a lot of things I wish I’d included, as it was initially suggested no one should speak for more than three minutes, and I knew it would end up long. (Just as this has!) But I decided that it was my only time to pay tribute in that way to my Grandmother, and I was going to just do it, and I’m glad I did. I just wish I’d had time to read it over even once or preferably polish it, and hadn’t discarded some important thoughts in my haste.

My grandmother was absolutely amazing, quite a beautiful and lively character, and would do anything to bring fun into each day. I’m particularly gutted as I truly thought she’d be around at least another 10 years and rather hoped to see her soon, as if my expected redundancy is confirmed (possibly on 6 May), my first planned course of action was to take up her ongoing offer to fly me to see her, as I’d finally then have the time. I didn’t make it in time. You’ve no idea how horrific it was to fly there anyway, have the usual initial automatic feelings of joy fill me as the plane landed in Philadelphia, then travel to her house to stay there, but without her, and always to be without her. I still haven’t entirely faced up to this dreadful loss; I unhealthily look away instead.

I mustn't be morbid. She was an empress in my world and will never fully be out of it; she was too strong a presence. I will always adore her. I wish I’d said more at the service but I’m pleased I said something. I’m also glad I praised the marvellous Jamie Wyeth painting Portrait of a Pig (and wasn’t insulting his father Andrew Wyeth’s paintings of Helga; I was simply embarrassed as a child to see full frontal nudity), as the marvellous artist Jamie Wyeth himself very kindly attended the ceremony, which means a lot. Also, as the wonderful Museum allowed us to put up several of her paintings in the foyer by the gift shop for the service, she has finally been exhibited in her favourite museum! I strongly recommend that anyone in the Pennsylvania/Delaware area visits the Brandywine River Museum and its beautiful grounds by the river, and donate what you can to keep it going…..it’s on my list of future beneficiaries once I win the lottery (which really needs to happen soon!).

As my Grandmother did not want her obituary to include a photograph, perhaps because like all of us, she did not see herself as the craggy face with pale hair that we all become, I’ve simply--for now--included here a photo of her from her first wedding in 1938 (tragically, she was widowed a few years later when my Grandfather was killed in a submarine in World War II).

But it isn’t really who I think of when I see Libby Dean, because it’s monochrome. My grandmother was always in full, blazing colour. Nothing garish, always pleasant. She was teals and turquoise, with bright pink lipstick and perfectly matching accessories. When I saw her, I saw beauty, not age. We tend to look at elderly people and just see the ‘old’, not the individual. She never failed to be an individual, and perhaps that, and the bright colourful character that matched the bright, colourful outfits, is what left me in shock that she could die, and so suddenly.

It somehow had not really occurred to me that that was on the cards, even though I lost my much younger father totally unexpectedly a few years ago. I thought they both were invincible. And it was my Grandmother who so understood my close bond with—and consequential true devastation at the loss of—my father, and kept getting in touch to see how I was coping as she knew it was particularly hard for me. She did much the same when I lost my precious cat and buddy of 20 years; she understood how much he had meant to me, as she had also had close furry companions throughout her life. Hence her dread that she was going to lose her aging, beloved spaniel Zack, who was in ill health. We were relieved that she did not have to face that, but a sad note is that right after Zack attended our gathering to spread her ashes on a delightfully sunny day, he weakened and did not pull through, bless him. Maybe they were holding on for each other and are together again now.

I suppose my words will mean little to those of you who didn’t have the joy of knowing this marvellous creature, my Grandmother, and I’ve gone on so long, I doubt anyone is still reading. But I guess this is cathartic. Here’s what I said at the Celebration of her Life on 16 April:-

………………………………………………………………………

The other week, the actress Elizabeth Taylor died. Now, devastatingly, another Elizabeth Taylor has died, my Grandmother, Elizabeth Taylor Dean. They were both icons, but my grandmother was the Original; she never failed to point out that she was Elizabeth Taylor first, and I think she might get some satisfaction from being Elizabeth Taylor last as well. Whilst Grandmommy was the fair age of 93, I was convinced she would live to be 100, so her death is more of a shock than you would expect. I'd hoped to visit again shortly, and it's been difficult to travel here and find myself gripped with the usual excitement I get coming to this area in anticipation of spending time with this extraordinary character, as she was a joy to be around, and a marvellous companion who found pleasure in little things, and livened up anything dull with a cute way of describing it, always learning, always laughing. She would find fun for us, and every excursion was a joy. It seems inconceivable that she is gone, but her character still permeates so many of these places, particularly here at the Museum.

I've been astonished by the number of terrific thoughts of her that have burst into my head over the past few days, and I hope you'll forgive me if I meander through some of these memories now....

Libby Dean was a pioneer of several trends that have now become quite common place, such as recycling, bedazzling, and pimping one's ride. If you perhaps wouldn't naturally associate such things with my Grandmother, I'll elaborate.

First, I can tell by looking around the room that many of you watched the MTV programme 'Pimp My Ride', a sort of 'extreme makeover - car edition', where someone's car is customised with unlikely luxuries like a bowling ball spinner or a gold jacuzzi. Libby Dean started a similar practice long ago, as she wouldn't take delivery of a new car without first having custom stripes--very tastefully--painted down the sides of the car, complete with her initials. Yes, a monogrammed car. And rather than a common Coke can holder by the driver's seat, she had a place for a crystal tumbler, as she would never drive to dinner without a glass of vodka by her side. Well, it was the cocktail hour, after all. And amazingly, she was never done for drink driving; it was eating a taco that proved to be her undoing in an accident, but that's another story. Certainly, her driving did tend to leave her passengers terrified for their lives, but that was more down to the fact that she seemed to think that you were meant to centre the car over the line that divided the lanes. Fortunately, she had an angel on her shoulder; that's the only explanation for the safety of her passengers over the years, and the fact that she came out of two car accidents very late in life without serious injury. I like to think that she'll now be someone else's guardian angel, which would perfectly suit her giving nature.

Next, I mentioned 'bedazzling', or even starting the 'extreme makeover--home edition' trend. None of us could have an ordinary lunchbox, coaster, glasses case or even kitchen cupboard handle--such things were too plain for her world. Grandmommy would affix appliqués or paint them until they were unique, adding a special, magical Libby touch. You've seen the impressive quality of her paintings; imagine that on your sweatshirt. With my debutante ball and wedding approaching, I passed to her my insignificant, dull white shoes, and they came back to me covered lavishly in pearls, sequins and lace, something that Cinderella's fairy godmother would envy. If she had worked for a designer, she would have made a fortune, but she was just interested in making the world a prettier place, and she certainly had a flair for it. She was also very practical and could fix anything, so when my deb dress was ripped moments before the ball started, and when my bridesmaid dress was too large and in danger of falling off, she whipped out a needle and thread and made everything better in minutes.

Finally, long before it was trendy to be 'green' she was a champion recycler. At every Christmas, she'd stand over us saying, 'That's lovely paper--save that!' so we'd unwrap the gift delicately and hand her the wrap, and indeed the next year, our presents were wrapped in very lovely, but very wrinkled, gift wrap.

But her recycling didn't end there. Rather than tuck away any unwanted gifts, she would attempt to find them a loving home elsewhere, sort of like an SPCA rehoming/rescue centre for gifts. Though she could really have done with a database, as one year the gift she sent me was one I had sent her a year before. But I'm all for recycling, and it's the thought that counts, and she was always thoughtful.

She was also stylish, beautifully presented in bright colours, and a sight to behold. I remember one of her old friends telling me years ago that even if she were wearing a fuchsia outfit, she would even ensure that her contact lenses matched.

Another memorable trait was my grandmother's patience and tolerance, whether it was offering encouraging words when I presented her with toads that I had rescued from her swimming pool, or coping quietly when my brother and I confused the strict instructions about avoiding her expensive, unripe crop of green beans, rather than picking every one of them. She was great at allowing me to explore her old barn and enjoy the ancient books and Barbie dolls I found there, and didn't bat an eyelid when I gave the life-sized doll Harriet, who stayed at her house, a haircut that looked like she'd been hit by some nuclear catastrophe and made her prime fodder for a horror film. She just bought Harriet a wig, and I always wondered if she'd taken Harriet to the store with her to get the proper fit.

Years later, I tried that remarkable patience considerably, when she arranged for the grandson of some friends to take me to the Bachelor's Ball at the Hotel DuPont. But only after he took me first to his parents' house for cocktails, before getting to the Ball and having champagne, then starting on other drinks with no sign of food, did I realise that it was probably not such a good idea to have starved myself for two days beforehand. The next thing I knew, the ladies' room at the Hotel DuPont had to be evacuated of all the women so that the perfectly nice, respectable date that my grandmother had arranged could come into the ladies' room and pick me up off the floor, then presumably sling me over his shoulder--I have no memory of this--before carrying me out through the ballroom past many guests who my Grandmother would have known, through the Hotel DuPont before getting me home, where I promptly 'fell asleep' on the floor. When I woke, rather worse for wear, I was terrified about what my grandmother would say. In the end, she just gave me a slight roll of the eye, a single quick shake of the head, and then she took me to the theatre.

In doing so, she stood by my side as I faced up to my shame, since the performance was the same weekend and also at the Hotel DuPont. She was largely responsible for my adoration of the theatre. I've seen many outstanding legends performing on stage in London, but what I always look back at with the most pride are two productions my grandmother took me to see: Carol Channing in Hello, Dolly! and Yul Brynner in The King and I. Not the original stagings, I hasten to add, but fun ones by her side.

She achieved some fame in her own right, and I know she was proud that her creation with Anne Scarlett of the 'critters, angels and stars’, which adorned the Christmas trees at the museum here for years, also appeared on the covers of Time and Newsweek, when she and other volunteers decorated the Reagans' Christmas tree in the White House, about which she was also interviewed on CBS morning television by Maria Shriver, now Mrs Schwarzenegger, which we watched with pride. She had a critter factory in her old home, a workshop filled year-round with drying teasels and cake tins full of silica gel. The reckless drives with her often involved stopping suddenly on the highway and pulling over because she'd seen just the right bit of Queen Anne's Lace, and she'd cut it and put it in a the tin of silica gel she kept in the trunk. During our many trips to Longwood Gardens, if I pointed out some pretty Celosia, she'd mumble that it would make an excellent Santa hat. I'm pleased that that legacy lives on, in the many Christmas decorations I'll hang on my tree each year, and in the book, Critters Angels and Stars, which I believe the Museum still sells.

It's hard to be at the Museum without her; our time here was such a huge part of my childhood. I always felt, when she brought me through the employees' entrance and was greeted by everyone we passed, that we were coming through some secret VIP entrance. She knew that I loved Jamie Wyeth's Pig and was embarrassed by Helga's nudity, but always shared her enormous knowledge with such thorough and fascinating background that it rooted my lifelong love of art. Last time I was here, we toured the NC Wyeth studio and house, and she taught the guide a few things, particularly as she had studied under Carolyn Wyeth. I also witnessed her discreetly teaching a guide at Winterthur some things he'd got wrong. That was the time she climbed into a giant bird's nest there so I could photograph her, the same way a grandparent would indulge a toddler. Not long after that, I tested her astonishing patience by keeping her waiting for an age at the Winterthur gift shop, with her uttering no complaints as I made her stop the car repeatedly when we finally left with claims that I was excited to see Canada Geese, or a pretty tree, and must take a closer look. Although she was quite a force to be reckoned with, her love for her grandchildren must be what kept her from hitting me. Little did she know that I had been instructed to keep her out of the house while my mother and aunt planned a surprise birthday party, and I really hope she forgave me.

She certainly thanked me for my gift, and her voice still chides me in my mind every time I procrastinate sending what she taught us was a crucially important thank you note. There's an old copy of Emily Post's book of Etiquette in her house, and I half expected there to be an inscription from the author thanking my Grandmother for ghost-writing it for her. She certainly was an expert on the right thing to do and always kept her family in line.

Indeed, she was absolutely the matriarch, and now our family feels a bit like it's floundering around aimlessly without its centre, its foundation crumbled. I've no idea how we'll manage, but I expect we'll apply the strength we inherited from her and learn to stand strong and weather this and any other storm that comes our way.

We have to look for small mercies here, to take some comfort for ourselves. I'm grateful that she was with a friend when she collapsed, as she always appreciated her many dear friends. I am glad that she achieved so many things she wanted, even making it to the Chelsea Flower Show in London some years ago; producing some gorgeous art; and was surrounded by brilliant friends and family, including always at least one furry friend by her side who meant the world to her. We can take comfort from the fact that her fears of losing her beloved companion Zack, the King Charles Cavalier spaniel, did not materialise. And I am just thankful that we were so blessed as to be touched by such an amazing life, and I am so proud to be part of this family that was built on her strong foundation. I take comfort in the fact that, although we are devastated by the void she has left, she is perhaps now in a better place, brightening up Heaven in the same way that everyone here brightened when they first had the joy of meeting this extraordinary woman. Her new peaceful community that I like to imagine welcoming her includes her beloved son Terry, many precious friends including several Golden Retrievers, and not one but two husbands. I'm not really sure how that works in Heaven, but if anyone could pull it off without acrimony, it's her.

So we are left here with this enormous void, and it seems that a great deal of warmth has just leaked from the universe, and I am frozen, and numb. But her tremendous presence is very much here and will always be felt, and part of her soul is hanging beside the impressive paintings in this museum, in the flowers in the fields--particularly Queen's Anne's Lace and even prickly teasels, which rather match her as she pulled off faux grumpy quite well. Such a robust, feisty, special charming character doesn't simply ebb away. I'm sure you'll find something in your life that will make you think of Libby--perhaps it's a fond memory, a flower, a scent on the breeze--her spirit somehow flitting past you. Smile when that happens; it's what she would want. I've no doubt we'll all somehow benefit from the presence of the redoubtable Libby Dean for many years to come.