I was on my way through New York State last night, listening to a Dateline podcast with Shelley, when my mum gave me the news: Peg had passed away.
Not everyone lives until their mid-90s, and it is a colossal tribute to the person Peg was that losing her feels too soon. She was a formidable presence— standing many inches over my 5’1” frame, with vibrant red hair, a pop of blue eye shadow, and an opinion about everything; she was a force to be reckoned with.
My earliest memory of Peg was sitting beside her at a family function. She was related to me only through marriage, but that marriage happened long before I was born, so she’s always been a part of my life.
In this particular instance, I was about 7 or 8, and I was telling her about the woman who came in from Japan and was visiting with my elementary school class, teaching us origami and a bit about her country. Peg, who was incredibly well-traveled, began telling me about Japan— and that led to Asian culture in general. Imagine my surprise at learning about the misogynistic practice of foot binding during this dinner. I can still picture her using her hands to explain it to me, spoon feeding me feminism before I even knew what it was.
After that, we sought each other out at every family gathering I attended— graduations, Christmas dinners, Thanksgiving dinners, the occasional baptism or communion or wedding. Peg would always loop her arm through mine as I escorted her to dinner, and we’d sit there swapping jokes and stories throughout the meal while she snuck glasses of wine— she had a particular affinity for Blue Nun. We would talk about politics and rock and roll and cooking and travel— and during my gangly teenage years, she made the awkwardness and shyness I always felt somewhat bearable.
Peg was innovative, strong, and ahead of her time: a true feminist. I admired her. I never minded having her hold my hand and bend my ear for hours at a time. The woman could spin a yarn— and then go off on a tangent, only to interrupt herself: “Well anyway…” and get back to it. She was never afraid to share her opinions— everything from great art to aliens to marijuana to George W Bush.
She would have me laughing myself to tears telling stories about what she called the “blue hairs” in her building (like how she would leave copies of Rolling Stone magazine lying around on the washers or dryers just to see their scandalized reactions). The love of her life, Paul (a perfect balance to the boisterous Peg) built her a kitchen in their basement to launch her catering business, The Fluted Mushroom, and she always had great stories about that too. For example, she once made an apple pie for my idol, Paul McCartney— and charged him $500 for it.
Peg was a fantastic cook. I always looked forward to whatever she brought to family gatherings— and considering that my entire family makes amazing food, that’s saying something. Peg loved my mother and sister and Shelley. She invited Shelley and me over a few times and prepared us food while we would discuss the state of the world or hear her trash talk certain celebrities with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes. She made blistered tomatoes one time— the only time I’ve ever seen Shelley eat and enjoy tomatoes.
Peg loved to travel. She’s been pretty much everywhere, and I would sit, enraptured, listening to her describe places to me that I’d only seen in pictures but planned to visit. She would often burst out with “I need a little R&R” and then jet off somewhere to immerse herself in the culture of somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In her early 90s, she suggested we plan a trip to the Amalfi Coast— that she would love to go there one last time. I had comical images in my head of Peg and me zooming down the winding roads of the coast in a little Italian car at 90 miles an hour.
During one visit, Shells and I helped her with Facebook and created a blog for her. She wanted to write about her little experiences in day to day life, so we called it “Just in Fun” and to date, it has only one post: “Here I am in blogger land, and for once in my life I am lost for words.” That was in 2019. Peg always encouraged my writing as well— including my fervent, burning desire to write books and interview Paul McCartney for Rolling Stone. In fact, she wanted to write a book, and had asked me to do it.
We set up another session to begin writing, finally. The plan was to get Chinese takeout and get her story down. When we arrived, she dismissively told us she had fallen before we arrived and asked, “Do you think this looks bad?” I saw Shelley’s eyes grow large and she said, “Peg, I can see your bone. Yes.” So we wrapped her arm and took her to the hospital to get stitched up, calling my uncle on the way. That was the first time, sincerely, that her age and frailty perforated my consciousness. She was always so fiery and vibrant that it was hard for me to comprehend she was aging— even as she diminished in height, her presence never wavered.
Not long after that, the pandemic hit. I saw her once or twice more at family gatherings prior to Covid and we had chatted on the phone, but were never able to arrange a meeting before the pandemic. I was terrified to see her throughout the pandemic, because the thought of unintentionally bringing even the slightest germ to her was unthinkable. What would we do without Peg? So I maintained my distance, promising her over the phone that we would get Chinese and get back to writing once everything cleared up.
I sat on the hotel bed last night, voice wavering, and asked Shelley if she thought Peg knew what was going to happen. Shelley said maybe, but she may have been ready if she was in pain. I asked if she thought Peg was scared and she said no. When I asked why, she said Peg didn’t strike her as the kind of person to be scared.
“To the well organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
It sucks when you don’t get to say goodbye. I am shocked and heartbroken— she was such a cool lady; she truly sucked the marrow out of life. I wish I got to spend more time with her, that we had found time to write that book, that we had gone to the Amalfi Coast, or at least taken a photograph together (considering my love for documenting my days, I am dismayed to find not one photo of me and Peg). She always made me feel seen and accepted my whole life— for my writing, when I was fully grown at 10 years old and tripped over flat surfaces, when I came out and brought Shelley to Thanksgiving dinner. I loved her.
I hope she is reunited with her beloved Paul in heaven, and that she has her own fountain of Blue Nun up there (what a way to go). I’ll raise a glass for her and try to live a life she would be proud of, full of good food, travel, and love.
