My Grandma

Mavis Ruth McFarren Hamel (1930-2025)

There are few people that we can say have known us our entire lives. Mavis Ruth McFarren Hamel (1930-2025) knew me all of my 52 years. That thought has been pretty precious to me as I slow down and absorb my grandma’s passing. When a person lives to be 94 you start to believe that just maybe she’ll be around forever.

My memories of Mavis are my own. Grandmothers and granddaughters are unburdened by the complexities of a parent raising a child. I always felt special with my grandma. Her eyes twinkled when she saw me. She frequently told me she loved me. She called me “sweetie.” She gave good warm hugs.

Grandma surrounded herself with the color blue. It was in the wallpaper in her kitchen and decorated her colonial style dishes. Blue flowers dotted her garden and her vases. Blue were the eyes of her husband. Of her three children. Her eyes, too, were blue.

Grandma adored her pets. The hypoallergenic dog parade of Charlie, Chip, Chipper, and Benji. Caring for those four-legged boys, and making their gourmet meals, kept her sharp and agile. I remember watching her hold Benji while she gently slid down five stairs on her bum to take him outside. I was both worried and impressed. 

Grandma also doted on her love birds – that were blue of course. She refused to leave her home on moving day until she 100 percent knew they were loaded in the car. I also remember how she sweetly began feeding a stray cat at her house at the coast. We named him “Toes” because he sported an extra set of them. You could tell she so wanted to have him in the house, but her allergies were set against it.

My grandma held tightly to her house full of stairs, an acre of yard, her driver’s license, her money, her lifetime of collectibles, and the fact that she’d never had a gray hair. She made friends with her neighbors and took piano/organ lessons into her 90s. 

Mavis was proud of her age and her long life. She was always dressed cute and styled her hair. Grandma was delighted when I showed up with my professional camera and took her portrait. She gave me the best smile. Grandma was always excited to have her birthday and picture shared on the local news. 

Mavis was strong-willed, but absolutely not sassy. My poor Uncle Keith made the mistake of teasingly calling her “sassy” once. We saw her quick Scottish temper that Thanksgiving. There was clearly a story behind her distaste for the word. 

My grandma could sew, crochet, and cook. She took great pride in everything she made or that my grandpa had built. She also loved to color intricate designs with her pencils and pens. Her favorite artwork was all over the fridge door. Grandma made my bridesmaids’ dresses, and she created many heirloom blankets. At 91, with her eyesight fading, she completed a gorgeous afghan for me at Christmas. I was amazed and truly touched. 

Grandma introduced me to chicharrones, corn dog “crab legs” at the Astoria market, and peanut butter on meat – before either of us knew what Thai food was. She deep fried sturgeon like nobody’s business and embraced whatever my outdoorsy grandpa caught or brought to her. She insisted on bringing a dish to Thanksgiving into her 90s. Those deviled eggs were a guilty pleasure.

My grandma called me “Miss America.” I heard her call one of my cousin’s daughters the same, and I smiled. The little girl likely didn’t know the reference, but I’m sure it still felt good. Grandma relentlessly asked me if I had a boyfriend every chance she got in my tweens. I think she secretly planned to set me up with her favorite bait boy on my grandpa’s charter fishing boat!

I remember many visits to Grandma and Grandpa’s place at the coast. The Hamels in Hammond. I fished on “The Dolphin” charter boat a few times. I got sick on said boat many times. My eyes bugged out when a salmon hit and stripped my line. I watched a shark get worked over on the bow. I reeled in a sturgeon (with assistance). I listened to my grandma laugh while grandpa told me a sturgeon’s mouth could suck up a child whole if I dared to swim beneath it. I’m pretty sure I never waterskied in the Columbia after that.

I loved chatting with grandma in her hot tub. I couldn’t get enough of her helping me play soap opera theme songs on her organ. Grandma showed me how to use the CB radio in her “red room.” I’d call out trying to get anyone to respond. Think Jodie Foster in “Contact” but with charter fishing boats. As soon as my grandpa radio’d in that he was on his way into the harbor, we were off like a shot to greet him.

My grandma lost her beloved Harlan in 2012. She lit up for that man. She adored him as  he did her. Grandpa was a Merchant Marine, a hunter, a fisherman, and a firefighter. A man’s man. He was also man enough to have miniature poodles running around.   

I asked Grandma once how she and Harlan met and she talked about him wistfully. Grandpa had returned from service and taken a fancy to her. But her father was wary about the older soldier boy. It took the word of close friends to make “Mac” trust that Harlan Hamel could date his daughter.

Grandma also said she was intimidated by Grandpa’s mother. Naomi Hamel was a skilled opera singer. Mavis was a yodler. Evidently in the pecking order of singing, yodeling was beneath bel canto. My grandma felt embarrassed. All I know is I would pay real money to hear that yodeling. The thought of it tickles me so much.  

There are tape recordings of my Great Grandmother singing that Ben was able to convert to digital. He actually layered some cuts onto The Macks’ Dajiban album. I think Great-Great-Grandfather Mac would enjoy that the band’s name is an unintended nod to the McFarren clan, and that Mavis’ mother-in-law is featured on their record.

While I have lots of memories and stories, there are a few standout moments with my grandma. The first is from the early years. My school held a Christmas bazaar where the students could bring nickels and dimes to purchase gifts for our families. I immediately snapped up the most spectacular “diamond” ring. 

My grandma was quite the Queen of rings and sparkly things. I was giddy with anticipation for her to open my Christmas gift. And her reaction did not disappoint. She squealed over it and slipped it on her finger. Later she would share stories about how she would flash that ring to her friends and they all thought it was the real deal. 

My other favorite memory is from 2021. Our trips to Portland’s convention center to get her Covid vaccines were actually pretty great. We donned our masks and listened to music by her great grandsons. She told me about taking my aunts to see the Beatles. That 1965 show was the band’s only time in Portland. Ever. We chatted about how much Portland changed.  I drove her by the “Tree Farm”, a bright blue building, painted with flowers and covered in 70 self-irrigated strawberry trees. If ever there was a building that screamed Mavis, it is that architectural wonder.  

At the vaccination site we sweet talked our way to handicap parking, a wheel chair, and a skip-the-line escort.  We marvelled at the military men and women making it all possible. They were so kind to my grandma every step of the way. We talked about how in all her 90+ years, she’d never seen anything like it. 

We had jumped many hurdles to get her the vaccine. But after securing an appointment and making the long drive from my home in Sherwood to hers in Damascus and then to Portland, it was the required elevator at the convention center that almost shook us. I wasn’t nuts about getting in a tight space during Covid. And Mavis was scared silly by elevators. 

As Grandma squeezed my hand tighter than any 90 year old should be able to, she told me about being stuck in an elevator during the 1965 Puget Sound earthquake. I told her that was an amazing story and she had every right to be leery. As I rolled her onto the platform, I told her about how my mom had also been stuck in an elevator while pregnant with me. So basically that meant all three of us had been stuck in an elevator at one time. Then just like that, the doors opened and we wheeled off the platform for that poke in the arm. 

My dad is Mavis’ oldest child, and I am her oldest grandchild. When she finally agreed to sell her home of 30 years, Dad and I were tasked with the monumental job of clearing out her space. I diligently found homes for so many of her treasures. One item that I kept for myself was her “Gone with the Wind” hurricane lamp. That lamp terrified me as a child. It was so pretty and fragile and always placed on a small, wobbly table between white upholstered chairs. Somehow the lamp made it through six grandchildren and eight great grandchildren. 

I also kept an ornate gold mirror that hung behind Grandma’s favorite floral sofa.  When I tried to re-home what I affectionately called “Doris the Davenport”, I only received inquiries about the mirror. My grandma refused all offers and it was proudly hung in her new apartment.

The crumbly, deteriorated backing with a penciled-in date of 1944 almost led to catastrophe. The heavy mirror tumbled off the wall and thankfully did not land on Grandma. Nor did the glass or frame break. Brian is currently reinforcing the back and returning the mirror to its glory days. I think Grandma would have been thrilled. 

Because I am a true, flower-obsessed anthophile, I often find my feelings in plants and flowers. I will think of Grandma whenever I see blue hydrangeas or smell pink carnations. She grew both in her gardens over the years.

As fate would have it, I received a bouquet of beautiful carnations just after Grandma passed. The fragrance instantly took me back to her Portland backyard. I quickly placed a seed order for “Grenadin Rose” heirloom carnation seeds.

I also created a therapeutic  “celebration of life” pressed flower piece in Mavis’ honor. Obviously it is full of blue hydrangea petals. I added pink heather to honor her Scottish heritage. With her eyesight failing the last few years it meant Grandma never saw any of my pressed flower art. But I know she’d have loved it.