See discussions, stats, and author profiles for this publication at: https://www.researchgate.

net/publication/279017647

Legacy of Our Grandmothers "I'm Taking This Picture so I'll Have It When
You're Dead"

Article  in  Qualitative Inquiry · June 2014

DOI: 10.1177/1077800413505540

CITATIONS READS

3 68

2 authors:

Jessika C Boles Lisbeth Berbary

Vanderbilt University University of Waterloo
21 PUBLICATIONS   70 CITATIONS    26 PUBLICATIONS   212 CITATIONS   

SEE PROFILE SEE PROFILE

Some of the authors of this publication are also working on these related projects:

Living Legacy: Bereaved Parents' Experiences of Loss and Legacy View project

Educational Experiences of Children with Cancer View project

All content following this page was uploaded by Lisbeth Berbary on 24 February 2016.

The user has requested enhancement of the downloaded file.

 Qualitative Inquiry
http://qix.sagepub.com/

Legacy of Our Grandmothers: ''I'm Taking This Picture so I'll Have It When You're Dead''
Jessika C. Boles and Lisbeth A. Berbary
Qualitative Inquiry 2014 20: 600 originally published online 29 October 2013
DOI: 10.1177/1077800413505540

The online version of this article can be found at:

http://qix.sagepub.com/content/20/5/600

Published by:

http://www.sagepublications.com

Additional services and information for Qualitative Inquiry can be found at:

Email Alerts: http://qix.sagepub.com/cgi/alerts

Subscriptions: http://qix.sagepub.com/subscriptions

Reprints: http://www.sagepub.com/journalsReprints.nav

Permissions: http://www.sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.nav

>> Version of Record - Apr 18, 2014

OnlineFirst Version of Record - Oct 29, 2013

What is This?

Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014

505540
research-article2013
QIXXXX10.1177/1077800413505540Qualitative InquiryBoles and Berbary

Article
Qualitative Inquiry

Legacy of Our Grandmothers: “I’m Taking

2014, Vol. 20(5) 600­–606
© The Author(s) 2013
Reprints and permissions:
This Picture so I’ll Have It When You’re sagepub.com/journalsPermissions.nav
DOI: 10.1177/1077800413505540

Dead” qix.sagepub.com

Jessika C. Boles1 and Lisbeth A. Berbary1

Abstract
What is a legacy? Is it the conferral of monetary goods, physical artifacts, or memories? Or is legacy an extension of the
self, complicated and crystallized, as it is refracted through the stories of those left behind? Using the improvisational
methodology of collaborative narrative refraction, we sought to deconstruct the concept of legacy as we have experienced
it through the loss of our grandmothers in this performative piece. As we spoke about our memories and narratives
with one another, shared meaningful artifacts, and engaged in dialogical autobiographical storytelling, we began to think
differently about not only our grandmothers’ legacies but also our own legacies as we are constantly constructing them.
For us, legacy is not a passive bequeathal to the next generation but rather a current, constant, and complex intermingling
of experiences and interactions that are ever refracted through the self and those who have gone before us.

Keywords
qualitative research, methodologies, writing as method of inquiry, methods of inquiry, narrative

Jessika:  So well let’s, okay let’s say we’re dead.

Lisbeth:  Alright.
Jessika:  We’re dead right now. Ideally, what do you want the world to be doing, to be
saying when they find out you’re dead? What would be the best case scenario?
Lisbeth: I would want somebody to remember how I taught them to take the string off of celery
before you cook it.
Jessika: Why that?
Lisbeth: Because those are the things that I remember about my grandmother.

Jessika Carmen Boles
My 25 years of life has been no stranger to death. Starting
from my preschool years, I have watched as grandmothers,
great grandfathers, neighbors, siblings in utero, and friends
have died around me. I grew up fascinated with the subject
of death and our discomfort around it. Choosing a socially
appropriate path for engaging with and studying death, I
tailored my master’s degree to end of life studies and took a
job as a child life specialist to provide support and assis-
tance for families and children through serious illness and
the end of life. Many times, my work involved helping fam-
ilies create tangible projects to symbolize memories they
had made together . . . a service we call “legacy building” in
the child life profession. In the past year, I took a position
with teenagers dying of solid tumors and brain tumors;
often, I see two to three deaths per week either at the hospi-
tal or through a hospice program. Sometimes, I fear that my
fascination with death spawns from my desire to “under-
stand” it as much as possible, as if that will make it less
frightening. Other times, I am convinced I have chosen such
a field as a means to distract myself from my own fear of
death, as I help teens cope with the same fear I work so hard
to displace. Regardless, death is all around me—it is what I
have experienced, what I choose to experience, and the
experience I choose to study. I cannot answer its questions
or solve its problems, but I am hopeful that we can die and
speak about death differently someday, and that we can cre-
ate our legacies differently as well.
1
University of Memphis, TN, USA
Corresponding Author:
Jessika Boles, Counseling, Educational Psychology, and Research,
University of Memphis, 101 Ball Hall, Memphis, TN 38152, USA.
Email: jcmorrs2@memphis.edu

Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014

Boles and Berbary 601
Lisbeth Anne Berbary
I, on the other hand, run from death. In fact, I spend most
of my life trying to protect myself and those I love from
death. I call it a “better safe than sorry” mentality, but my
counselor calls it generalized anxiety. Truth is my entire
family has the same problem—we have routines, follow
unnecessary precautions, say Sicilian prayers to our
Catholic saints, and stay “acceptable” distances from dan-
ger—of course acceptable distance is always already
defined through an overly anxious and somewhat hypo-
chondriatic lens. In fact, it is so commonplace for my fam-
ily to assume that we are going to die at any moment that
my father refuses to fly on a plane with my mother lest I
become an orphaned only child at the drop of a pilot or
two. Yet, while I’ve spent so much time trying to control,
manipulate, and avoid death—I’ve actually been present
for the final days of five family members, two clients at
the assisted living facility where I worked, one of my best
friends’ mom, a friend from college, and a friend from
high school. In fact, I nicknamed the year that my grand-
mother, great uncle, and great aunt passed away as
Deathfest 2010—considering that within 3 months, we
lost half of my grandma’s generation to natural causes at
the ages of 92, 94, and 91. I often find myself using humor
and anxiety to try to avoid death, but as it turns out I’m
actually hyper-aware of it—overly focused on the finality
of it and constantly nostalgic for the people I’ve lost and
the people I’ll leave behind. Such longing for the past and
concern about the future has made it difficult for me to live
happily in the present. Therefore, I entered this project
with the intention of being open to the possibility of think-
ing about death differently, and challenging my own con-
ceptions of the finality of it and the notions of legacy for
those left behind.
Our Voices: One
Legacy
It comes from you.
Something that connects what’s in front with what’s behind
to those whom are left.
A suitcase of sorts
filled with memories
of others as me and me as others.
Your legacy becomes ours.
It’s a space in place.
An action oriented memory.
A telling,
a doing,
a becoming with others
Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014
consumed in the past
as it transverses time.
Manipulated stories.
Tellings of what we want to remember
scattered between the “real” and imagined.
A testament to the things we saw.
A debt to share
because no one else will.
A remembrance of you/me/us.
Grandmother Stories: One
Jessika’s Grandmother: Margaret Isabelle
Morisette
My grandmother, or “Little Grandma,” as we called all 4
feet and 10 inches of her, was born in Kansas in 1921 to a
railroad family. Her younger brother died of polio when
she was a school-aged child, and her family barely had
time to grieve as they moved time and again across the
country to follow the railroad and work migrant farming
jobs along the way. Their pursuance of the railroad
afforded them a whole host of legendary experiences,
from conquering the American West untamed as it once
was, to harboring the famous outlaw Jesse James and his
posse of bandits in the abandoned boxcar that was their
home for most of her childhood. Little Grandma got mar-
ried at the age of 14 to a 17-year-old boy named Jack and
then moved with him to California, where she bore three
children—one of whom died at age 2 of polio—and it was
in California that she lived the rest of her days. She made
her living working as an aide to children with special
needs in the school system; she described herself as a
blend of “tough love” and warmth, encouraging her stu-
dents to try things for themselves but standing by to pro-
vide support when needed. She was a tough, stubborn,
crass, and ornery woman, and I adored her for it. She was
a master of knitting, crochet, and other handicrafts and a
collector of cuckoo clocks that chimed a variety of sounds
on the hour. She was notorious for cheating at board
games and couldn’t start her day without finishing at least
one crossword puzzle over a bowl of frosted cereal. She
loved the Native American casinos, Chuck Woollery, and
the Game Show Network, making her famous super slip-
pery sandwiches or a pot of hard-boiled eggs for no par-
ticular reason, and her grandchildren—even when they
lived half a continent away. Terrorizing her neighbors was
a regular activity, as was dedicating her time in service of
the Veterans of Foreign Wars—to the point that she was
one of only a few nonmilitary women in history to be
honored with a full military funeral—a funeral that I was
unable to attend, a celebration where she was laid to rest
602 Qualitative Inquiry 20(5)

in a grave that took me hours in the cold Sacramento rain
to find 2 years later . . . and Little Grandma continues to
get the last laugh even today.
Lisbeth’s Grandmother: Seraphina Agnes
Rizzone Molea
My grandmother, “Little Russian Woman,” as we called all
4 feet and 10 inches of her, was born as Seraphina Rizzone
in Buffalo, New York, in 1918 to a Sicilian immigrant fam-
ily. Her parents had met in New York after taking a boat to
the new world from Mussomeli, Italy, and had seven chil-
dren—four girls and three boys of which she was the sec-
ond oldest. She spent her childhood raising her younger
siblings, learning to cook and clean, idolizing her hard-
working father, celebrating Catholic holidays with fresh-
made pasta and homemade sauce, working as a migrant
worker, and living in a small tenement in the “Hooks”—a
name the neighborhood earned due to the number of dead
bodies that were pulled out of the nearby Erie Canal by
cargo hooks. She got married at the age of 30 to my Poppa
Vincenzo Molea and moved to the suburbs of Buffalo,
where she had one child, my Mother Roslyn. Sara made
her living working as a knife grinder at National Grinding
Wheel, ran a jewelry counter at a fancy department store,
and, even, opened a short-lived grocery store where my
Poppa was a butcher. She was a feisty woman who got
what she wanted and knew what was best for everyone—
even though she claimed to be “deaf, dumb, and blind” and
stay out of people’s business. Yet, if you were lucky and
stopped by the house around Christmas you would be sent
home with a plate of her chocolate Italian cookies or her
famous cuccidati—the fig ones with the white frosting.
Finally, in my daily visits, she’d teach me countless les-
sons such as how to double check a checkbook, how to
bend to touch the floor with your palms, what saint to pray
to, and how to peel the strings off of celery before you
cook with it. The family called her “chickie” because, like
a chicken with its head cutoff, she ran around every day
fulfilling her routine: She’d say her prayers and novenas
for others, light her holy candles, watch her catholic mass,
garden or shovel snow, take a 10-min power nap, read her
newspaper, call her brothers and sisters who were the
loves of her life, do laundry and iron shirts, clean her
already clean house, pay her bills, check the stocks, and
fall asleep to the 11 o’clock news. A friend once told me
the way to live was to “fit into each day the things you
want to have throughout your life.” Grandma lived a life-
time each and every day—until the day she gardened, got
tired, and passed away. God finally sat the chicken down.

Our Voices: Two

Found Poetry
If I were to go through day to day life I don’t think that I could bear the thought of thinking
“wow people are going to hate me when I’m dead.”
I could have been better.
Or they’re going to tell stories about how terrible I was and how I didn’t do things well enough.
I can’t stomach that.
A wasted life.
I mean maybe that is the opposite of legacy. Maybe the opposite of legacy is nothing and we
don’t like the idea of nothing.
The disremembering of . . .
So you have to have something
Or non-remembrance of . . .
Being forgotten, yeah just being gone.
So you either have legacy or
And be really dead.
Forgotten.
Being dead physically and dead . . .
Disconnected.
Socially
Emotionally, socially.
Just dead.

Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014

Boles and Berbary 603

Grandma Stories: Two
A Note to Margaret
Dear Little Grandma,
Mom was here today, and we finally spent all afternoon
going through your boxes. All nine of them, packaged
tightly and layered with dust they have accumulated since
Aunt Lori shipped them to me after you died. I am not sure
why I haven’t opened them yet . . . I think I was waiting for
someone who knew you to come and help me so that I
wouldn’t have to remember you alone.
We unfolded boxes to find relics of your 85 years . . . a
plethora of handmade lace and afghans, an entire box of old
books—crosswords and organ music—ancient photos taken
on sheets of tin, and your collection of noisy cuckoo clocks.
Elvis left the box and began to play “Can’t Help Falling in
Love” . . . that was your favorite. I think we bought you that
on a family trip to Graceland one time. You sat him on the
shelving unit above your record player, right next to the
photo of me and my college boyfriend that I had given you
in a frame. Looking that direction would always prompt
you to ask me when I was going to get married. I wish you
had been there . . . you would probably have hated the trav-
eling though, although I know that you would have liked
this guy much better than the one in the frame.
I found myself in those boxes as well. There was a VHS
copy of my high school graduation—you hadn’t been able
to come that time because your best friend was ill and you
were the only one to help take care of her. Still attached to
the tape is mom’s sticky note with directions on how to use
the VCR. I also found a typewritten letter I had sent you in
college just out of the blue to see how you were doing and
tell you I missed you. I don’t usually do things like that, but
I just felt like I needed to. You sent me a handwritten card
adorned with your curly cue script—a handwriting style
they don’t teach in schools anymore. Then you died a cou-
ple years later, and that letter has somehow managed to
make its way back to me.
Nine boxes were not enough to relive your memories
intertwined with mine.
I love you,
Jessika
A Note to Seraphina
Nee-nee,
We rode our bikes to the farmer’s market today. You
would have loved it here with all of the palm trees and beau-
tiful flowers. It reminded Nick of Hawaii—Nick’s parents
talked about their trips to Hawaii and I told them about how
much you and Poppa loved it there. One of the only trips
you ever took away from Buffalo.
And back to the market. You would have died over the
beets at this market, big and purple red—you would have
cooked them, greens and all after scrubbing them raw with
a kitchen brush. Just like when Mom used to bring them
home for you from Ithaca.
I found a man selling painted eggs, and I figured I’d buy
you one. I remember how you used to love your knick-
knacks—a sign of wealth among your Sicilian American ide-
ologies. Something I always felt guilty that I didn’t share. But
these eggs you would have loved. You would have raised your
voice with a breathy “oh” and shimmied over to them telling
me stories of how your Polish friends had such wonderful
painted eggs and how they had given them to you to showcase
in your china cabinet. I remember those eggs and wonder
what became of them after you left us. Today, I decided to buy
three—I was thinking you would like them, but not as much
as the ones your Polish friends had given you—nothing we
bought would ever be as good as the sights, smells, tastes, and
sounds that you had in your memory. I got you one anyway.
I’ll keep it in our house for you among your other knick-
knacks that I collected when we packed up your house.
You wrote me letters all of your life. Here is one for you.
Love you,
Beth

Our Voices: Three

Our Own Eulogies
If you knew . . .  
Jessika Lisbeth
  You’d know that she was . . .  
Someone that you couldn’t A contradiction. An identity in
capture in a single speech. constant motion—a complicated
Someone you had to get to know to begin to mixture of experiences sometimes
understand. confusing to understand.
  So many people knew of her  
  But only so many people  
could see her.
(continued)

Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014

604 Qualitative Inquiry 20(5)

(continued)
  Could see her . . .  
  Intelligence  
Hard work  
  Magnetism
  Quirkiness  
  Humor  
  Self-Awareness  
  Need for Justice  
Commitment  
  Playfulness
  Sarcasm  
  Way with Words  
  Compassion  
  Accomplishments  
  Could see her as a . . .  
  Beauty  
Wife Girlfriend
  Scholar  
Sibling Favorite Child
  Best Friend  
  Mentor  
“Star Student” Respected Professor
  Confidant  
  It’s hard to pin her down. Just  
let her take you along for the
ride.
  A ride through . . .  
Softball Trophies  
  Exotic cooking
  Love for cultures  
  Constant desires to improve  
  Commitment to family  
Team Sports
Bike Rides
Theoretical deconstruction
Theoretical construction
  Love for pets  
  Laughter  
Mixed Drinks Beer and Wine
  Friendship  
  Knowledge(s)  
  Exploration  
  And each exploration had  
a lesson . . .
  To learn something  
  To teach something  
  To leave something  
  To be strong  
  To always push forward  
  to wherever it is you end up  
going.
Jessika Lisbeth
  will be missed.  

Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014

Boles and Berbary 605
Grandmother Stories: Three
A Eulogy for Margaret Isabelle Morisette
She sits next to me on the off-white sofa, while her wrinkly
hands pick up the hanging rows of stitches to examine them.
“Oh honey,” she says, “you made a mistake right back here.
Do you see it?” I nod because I know it is there, and because
I also know what’s coming next. “Let me see it” she says
and begins to tear out my stitches row by row. I see each
hour of my work being destroyed and try not to cry. Little
Grandma hates to see tears; I admire her for it, but right now
I hate her. “You’ll understand someday,” she tells me, and I
am not convinced.
Mom, Jake, and I went to see you that last Christmas,
except we didn’t know that it was going to be the last one.
You taught me to crochet an afghan and ripped out hundreds
of stitches along the way. I still haven’t finished it. While
Jake played his videogames, we all gathered at the yellow
laminate countertop because you wanted to show us some
things in the pile of dusty old boxes that you kept in the
guest bedroom. Inside were hundreds of photos, a newspa-
per article announcing the draft for World War II, a land
receipt from the 1920s, elementary school report cards, and
images on tin and paper in albums and frames. As we looked
rummaged through the boxes, you made us each a glass of
“adult” chocolate milk (milk and Kahlua). We heard story
after story that day. We heard about every war that you lived
through, every husband you had and buried, each child that
you long outlived. We heard about your wedding in the
front yard and giving birth at home in a time when that was
standard. You told us about your childhood, when anything
you wanted you had to make yourself because there was
never enough money to go around. You learned to make the
things we consider “hobbies” out of necessity and contin-
ued to make them out of habit.
That day I tried so hard to soak up story after story and
ask as many questions as I could, somehow struck in the
moment by the fleeting nature of time. I began to wonder
whether that would be my last year with her. She told us she
had just been “cleaning house” and started to ask us what
we wanted her to leave us when she’s dead. We told her not
to worry about her money and to live it up before she goes!
Then we joked that she wasn’t going anywhere anytime
soon. I told her I just wanted the photo albums. In reality, I
wanted to keep the stories more than the photos, but I knew
I would never tell them like she did. She started to write
names and years on each photograph to help me in carrying
the stories forward. My mom got so angry at her for asking
us to plan her will for her, mostly because she was uncom-
fortable with you dying one day.
And that day did finally come, on Thanksgiving Day, at
home. I refuse to remember how I laid next to you in your
bed as you were gulping your almost final breaths. Instead,
I choose to remember you like you were in the kitchen on
Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014
the day of the boxes. You were so full of life, and fire, and
ornery soul. I always loved your stories, and the way you
would start to tell them so LOUDLY once your hearing aid
batteries started to go out. You were sneaky, devilish, and
always working on something. I think that’s what kept you
around so long: You just never slowed down.
Most of all, I love that you always had something to give—
your time, your energy, and your peace even when you told us
it was pancreatic cancer. You taught me skills that people just
don’t appreciate anymore. I can knit a scarf, crochet a blanket,
weave a potholder, tat some lace, or cross-stitch an intricate
pattern. More than anything, you gave me the experience of
having a grandmother when both of mine had been gone for
years. I can’t replace that part of my history.
I don’t know what to do now with your empty house,
your dusty boxes, those obnoxious clocks, or the frigging
yarn. But I do know that I will be okay, that we will all be
okay, because you taught us how to do that. We are tough
skinned like you were, and we all stay busy enough to keep
moving forward and never slow down. We miss you, but we
will carry you and your stories with us as long as we can.
Wherever you are, try to be nice and make some friends. We
don’t want the whole afterlife pissed off at us before we
even get up there!
A Eulogy for Seraphina Agnes Rizzone Molea
Kisses goodnight. It’s time for bed and I am there for my
usual Friday night sleepover. I get up to head toward the
bedroom and step directly onto a pin perfectly camou-
flaged in the carpet—one of the many that Grandma has
dropped during those long hours of her digging her nails
into my skin as she measures the perfect fit for the dress
she is sewing me. Poppa rinses with yellow Listerine and
I hear his dog tags jingle as he adjusts his brown and yel-
low striped bathrobe that grandma made for him.
Grandma shuffles toward us in her typical deer-foam
slippers and housecoat. We go to sleep, and grandma puts
her cold feet up against Poppa’s legs in bed. She calls
him her hot box.
In the morning, I wake up to grandma talking too loud
because her hearing aids are still on the nightstand, the same
hearing aids that ring when you hug her. Fresh Italian bread
is baking in the oven, and no one is sitting down. No one
ever sits in this house; there is always something to do. Aunt
Chickie, as my cousins called her, was an appropriate name
because she was always running around like a chicken with
its head cutoff. She and Poppa work around the kitchen
together. Poppa doesn’t think I’m watching. He bends down
to get something out of the cupboard, and, on the way up,
grandma yells “mani longi” as Poppa playfully taps her on
the bottom. “Long fingers Molea,” she jokes. I smile won-
dering what the two of them must be like when company’s
not around.
606 Qualitative Inquiry 20(5)
Throughout the day, I listen to the well-learned tips that
grandma has been giving all of us since birth, even though
she claims to “stay out of people’s business” and be “deaf,
dumb, and blind.” Luckily, her “nonadvice” always turned
out to be pearls wisdom. Be a survivor, if God is with you,
who can be against you, always hold hands and never go to
bed angry, there is no such word as “can’t,” you can do put
anything you can put your mind to, don’t worry until you
have to, anything in moderation, always ask, the worst thing
they can say is no, leave it all in God’s hands . . . and freeze
everything. In fact, there was no need to purchase any food
for the celebration after the cemetery—we simply defrosted
the contents of grandma’s freezer. Easter candy from 2
years ago for all!
When asked what her secrets to longevity were, she’d
tell you: “Nine golden raisins soaked in gin. It’s supposed to
help arthritis, I take nine for this leg and nine for this one,”
said with a devilish smile—potentially, because she did not
have arthritis but rather a love of gin. She grew up drinking
her father’s wine, which of course meant that she hated
every bottle of white wine we ever tried to buy her. “Not
like my fathers.” Luckily, she still enjoyed a half of beer at
every dinner and a sip of Southern Comfort before bed. One
of the only 90-year-olds I knew who got a handle of SOCO
(Southern Comfort whiskey) for Christmas.
Along with her “sip” of liquor before bed, she was also
known for her breaded artichokes, pesto in tin cupcake
wrappers, pasta and posati, and frozen peanut-butter pie.
And she kept the whole family regular for years on her blue-
berry bran muffins. “You’re coming home?” she’d ask,
“what do you want me to make for you?”
And it was in her nature to always give to other people.
She didn’t care about your religion, race, class, or sexuality,
“that’s alright” she’d say “are they a good person? that’s all
that matters.” Not only did she teach me to be open to others
but also how much we can learn from newspaper clippings,
how to create a budget, where to get the best deal on broc-
coli, and how to use those little white table-like things to
keep from ruining the frosting on cakes and pies. Make sure
you wash them and give them back to her.
It is September 5—the day after Grandma has left us.
Wherever she is, the kitchen has been cleaned and the bread
is made. She turns around to finally see Poppa walking
toward her after 6 years living without him. She hears their
wedding song, the anniversary waltz, in the background, and
Poppa starts singing to her as he swings her around the room.
The loneliness she has felt is gone, and they sit to take their
daily medicine: golden raisins soaked in gin. “We have a shot
Downloaded from qix.sagepub.com at UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO on June 19, 2014
View publication stats
of the gin now too. And I get an extra kiss,” she says smooch-
ing Poppa’s gin-covered lips. Poppa looks at me with a devil-
ish grin, “And I get one too,” he adds with a wink.
Afterword
Jessika:
I told Mom about this paper today, about how someone
wants to publish it in their journal for everyone to read. At
first, there were jokes about how you would hate the
whole idea and jump to the conclusion that we were “just
trying to get a rise out of an old lady by airing her long
dead, dusty, moldy, and dirty laundry for everyone to
chatter about!” Then the laughter calmed into silence.
Just as I was about to change the subject, she managed,
“To hell with it. I love it, I loved her, and people better
love this paper.”
Little Grandma used to try to convince me that my time
was better spent finding a husband and making babies—not
reading books, writing papers, and earning degrees.
Whether she likes it or not, one way or another, I am sharing
her legacy . . .
which is also my legacy . . .
which has become part of Lisbeth’s legacy . . .
and now it is part of your legacy as well.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with
respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this
article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research,
authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Author Biographies
Jessika C. Boles is a graduate student in educational psychology
in the Department of Counseling, Educational Psychology, and
Research at the University of Memphis.
Lisbeth A. Berbary is an assistant professor in recreation and lei-
sure studies at the University of Waterloo. Prior to her current
position, she taught qualitative inquiry at the University of
Memphis where she established the Graduate Certificate in
Qualitative Studies in Education and the Qualitative Inquiry
Circle. She holds a Ph.D. in Leisure Studies with graduate certifi-
cates in both women’s studies and interdisciplinary qualitative
research. She can be contacted at lberbary@uwaterloo.ca