Grandma Margaret’s life continues in all of us – her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. 25 direct descendants who will keep telling her stories, who will laugh when they remember her chuckle, and who will keep her alive with every memory we carry forward.
She once told me about growing up in her family’s two-bedroom apartment on Stockton St. above her father’s tailor shop. She counted her mom and dad and named all 7 siblings aloud and then said, “Anthony, We didn’t have 10 toothbrushes.” and started laughing. We all know that chuckle that Grandma had..
Her house on 622 15th Avenue is the literal hearth of the family and a representation of her love. The warm light of her house drew in people close. Ever the gracious host, she held countless birthdays, after dinner parties, before dinner meetups, and celebrations. As a kid, I remember the adults sitting around the table, a Giants or 49er game on the TV, kids in the sunroom playing candyland. It was a place of laughter, where memories were shared, photos were passed around, and cake with ice cream was placed on paper plates.
I have vivid memories of the dark brown bannister, wood stairs covered by a carpet runner that was worn down by countless footsteps. Babies crawled up and down them, those babies turned into toddlers’ unsure steps, then kids ran up them. The preteens would gossip on them, then teenagers played video games on them. And always adults walked them up them to find the second bathroom.
I remember fondly the pink carpet and the wood built in cabinets that are a living time capsule. Decorated with portraits of weddings, graduations, babies, christmas cards, and hand written thank you notes. Grandma’s house was the place you went not only to visit her, but to be reminded of who you were, and who you belonged to.
Her kids remember her as a kind and caring if somewhat superstitious mom. She warned the boys not to ride boats on Stow Lake, certain that spirits in the water would pull them under. Big Mike says one time, Raymond and Ronald and him tipped a boat over and got all wet. They all went to Big Mike’s house to dry off so maybe Grandma didn’t know about it.
Grandma was also the literal driver of the family. Her kids remember the different station wagons and Grandma needing a pillow behind her to reach the pedals. Uncle Ron reminisces about how quote “It was so different in those old days, riding along in a large station wagon with no seat belts and sitting backwards in the third row going 55 mph down to LA.”
Grandma allowed and encouraged room to play. Bikes, roller skates, cowboy gear, wooden stick horses, and of course that infamous metal airplane tricycle were all parked in the garage ready to be rolled out. Uncle Ron remembers Grandma letting the boys take over the garage. Over the years, it held RC miniature race tracks, a pool table, and then an auto repair shop. Neighborhood kids came in and out, welcomed without question. Grandma’s house didn’t have walls that shut people out—it had doors that opened wider.
She lived a life filled with journeys. Every year, Yea Yea would close the restaurant for a week. The family visited Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, and Catalina Island. One of their favorite places to visit was Disneyland and they even stayed at the Disneyland Hotel one time. Then when Yea Yea retired, the family went to Europe, Japan, Hong Kong, and China. Even after Yea yea’s death, she continued her travels going to Toronto, New York, Niagara Falls, Cabo, and on an Alaskan cruise.
What stands out to me was her independence. After Yea Yea passed, the family thought she would need help, but she insisted: “No, I will stay in the big house by myself.” And she did. For years. One concession, she would always attend Sunday dinners at Auntie Kat’s house with the family. Auntie Kat and Uncle Al always made sure to cook extra food so Grandma could take it home.
Finally 6 years ago, Grandma agreed to have someone live with her and cook for her. Talk about independence, can you imagine being 95 still thriving on your own? But then, Siu came into grandma’s life and became part of the family. Her and grandma would talk a lot, eventually Grandma started teaching her English and gave her the English name of Sylvia.
Grandma was funny, too — in her own sharp way. When she was done with you, she would wave her hand, dismissing you with a flick. A gesture we all experienced, and all came to treasure, because it was so purely her.
My own stories of her are countless, a vibrant mosaic of moments. But mostly, I remember her as simply, Grandma
Back in 2013, I moved to the Bay Area. I didn’t have a place to stay so I stayed with Grandma. I was Grandma’s first roommate since Yea Yea died. And she was out more than me. I remember waking up around 10 am one day, she was gone and she came back with Barbara after walking to Clement St and shopping. I asked why she didn’t tell me, she said blankly “Anthony, you were sleeping”.
It was at that time we started our Thursday meals together. She was always looking for a good deal. We tried out so many restaurants looking for wonton noodle soup that was under $8 dollars. That has to cost $15 now with inflation. Grandma would not approve.
Auntie Kat says Grandma’s memory was almost photographic. When Auntie Kat stayed with her, she would tell her stories about growing up, playing hooky from school, and then hiding in buildings when she saw a policeman during school hours. I can attest to this. Months after I left her house and moved to Oakland, I got a call. It’s late for her, like 8:30. And I pick up thinking it’s one of my aunts. No, it’s Grandma. She tells me I need to return her big knife. Sui needs it for the big chicken. I know she expected me to drive it over immediately but I told her I’ll be by tomorrow with it. Our conversation ended with her signature “hmmmm”.
That next year, I started the garden in her backyard. Eventually I needed better dirt. So I rented a truck and loaded it with 300 pounds of soil. I drove it to grandma’s house and then I saw her sitting at the window staring at me as I backed that truck in. I walked up those garage steps and there she stood all 95 pounds of her with a very stern look on her face. She said “Why did you bring dirt to my house”. I stuttered “It’s for the garden”. Another signature “hmmmm”.
These are the pieces of her that stay with us—the laughter, the stories, the warnings, the food, the house, the sharp wit, the tender heart. She was one of my favorite people in this world, and I am glad she has found peace.
But her story isn’t finished. It lives in the houses we build, in the food we cook, in the children we raise, and in the stories we tell. That is her gift to us, and her legacy.
Anthony R. Leong 