Goodbye Mimi: A Tribute to My Colorful Grandmother

This article was originally published on Medium, on December 26, 2023.

“No gifts! If you’re going to win…I want you to win fair and square”, my grandma stared at me across the foosball table. I was thirteen years old. Our fourth foosball game of the afternoon had just kicked off in a Parisian suburb bistro. We’d alternate between chatting about life over cups of tea and outdueling each other at miniature table soccer. Her tough love-laden message was clear: she wanted my victories to be real. And my full accountability for the outcome.

You might think your grandma is unique. That’s because you haven’t met mine. Laurence “Mimi” Tellio passed away on September 11. And I miss her terribly.

If you’re going to understand Mimi (the first thing I called her, as a toddler, as I tried to pronounce the traditional French “Mamie”) or “Mims” (as I’d call her later on), you’ll have to travel back to her childhood. Part of what made her who she was, was that she survived the Holocaust. She was 8 years old when the Nazis invaded Paris. Her brother Philippe was 9. As a Jewish family, they had procured documents “proving” they were not Jews. As they attempted to escape to the free zone — in the South of France — SS officers stopped them. Their forged IDs were handed over. The family held their collective breath. They shook in fear, as their lives hung in the balance. As Mims recounted it, those few minutes felt like an eternity. The SS guards finally nodded. The Ordner family exhaled as they saw the finish line to freedom. They had made it through. But the same can’t be said for several of their relatives.

A survivor at heart, she had a contagious zest for life. And the hardships she went through left a few cute blemishes we’d tease her about. For one, she was a hoarder. She’d often keep trinkets from trips she had taken. For us, they were items that could be thrown away after a few months. To her, these souvenirs connected her to the places she had been to.

A kid even in adulthood, Mimi kept teddy bears and stuffed animals on her bed. She’d also carry sweets and chocolates in her purse wherever she went. It’s like she was making up for the innocence she lost early in life. Her childlike disposition made her approachable and insatiably curious about the world. She’d always say, “Je ne m’ennuie jamais. Entre la musique, la politique, la sculpture, les affaires étrangères…” “I’ve never bored. Between music, politics, scupting, geo-politics…how can you be?” To her, life was rich. Abundant with knowledge to gain, disciplines to appreciate, and hobbies to cultivate.

After two difficult marriages and a healthy dose of inner work, Mimi felt released from a lot of her trappings. Her therapist once declared, “vous raisonnez bien”, meaning “you reason well”, as a way of gently graduating her out of his client base. The second part of her life was a rebirth. Her kids were raised and she lived with newfound freedom. She made the most of her golden years; with stints living in London, Boulogne (nestled against Paris), and Barjols (in Provence).

I’d be remiss if I didn’t highlight her unforgettable carefree attitude. She had a way of inviting you into her zaniness; making you feel at ease about everything. She was going to love you no matter what. When we were younger, Mims would engage the whole family in spontaneous musical productions. She’d grab pots and pans from the kitchen, and have us play them. We’d dance around the house, as she’d chant rhymes. We were all entranced; having too much fun to stop.

My sisters and I shared a bedroom with her countless times growing up. Our nights would usually end up in laughter and sneezefests. We’d need so many tissues we’d bring in toilet paper rolls from the bathroom to tend to our nostrils. On a summer family vacation in Ramatuelle, she and I were roommates in a guesthouse. As we were about to fall asleep, I noticed a large lizard dangling from the ceiling right above her head. I yelled out, “Mims, there’s a huge lizard above your head! Wake up, we need to do something about it.” I was incessant for several minutes. Fed up with my loud exhortations, she finally responded, “c’est un davoué iguane.” “It’s a cute iguana.” She wanted to sleep, rather than deal with the critter. I left her alone after that. From then on, each time we’d see a reptile of any kind, we’d call it a “davoué iguane”.

The translation above needs further explanation. ‘Davoué’ is not a French word. It’s a transformed version of ‘dévoué’, which means ‘devoted’. To her, ‘being devoted’ was synonymous with ‘being cute’. Sprinkling in a little poetic license, she made the story more legendary by exaggerating the lizard’s size and making it an iguana. A peek into how her brain functioned. Over her lifetime, she developed her jargon, picking words from Yiddish, Hebrew, English, Arabic, and French, modifying them when needed, and making the result her own. Her imagery was spot on. There was usually a funny anecdote around the birth of a new word. Consequently, the whole family enthusiastically adopted her language. It’s almost like Mimi created a tiny dialect for our small tribe. In honoring her, we’ve collected her full Lexicon. Much of it is not fit to print here, which makes me laugh as I write about it.

Mimi was a prolific artist. Picking up on an artistic family history, most of her early creations were sculptures. She molded beautiful shapes in terracotta, usually of the human form, and gifted a lot of them to family members and friends. Once, while visiting her in Montpellier, she gifted my girlfriend at the time a gorgeous sculpture named “Pregnancy”. It was a not-so-subliminal message to her and me to get to work on making a baby. My mom and aunt often talk about Mimi’s singing during their childhood. Her voice was enchanting and would reverberate throughout their home. Most who heard her believe she could have made singing her profession.

Later on in life, she transitioned to colorful drawings and paintings. She became known for her warm colors and an obsession with the beauty of the female form. This meant she painted a lot of nudes. She’d take mischievous delight in offering her paintings to men she knew. Especially when they’d blush. Late in her life, music played an even greater role. A life-long student of the craft, her appreciation ran deep. In the last few weeks of her life, when she was not doing well, one of the things she would still appreciate was a good song. We’d put one on and she’d bob her head back and forth, fully immersed in the sound coming out of the speaker. We were in tears watching her.

As many know, Dad aka “JLG” is a walking quote machine. But Mimi gave him a run for his money for being the family’s most quotable person. Once on a return flight from Maui, she was helping me study for an optics exam in physics. I was dozing off, either bored by the material or just plain tired. She kept repeating, “Tu fuis la vie!”. “You’re fleeing life!”. I did my best to wake up and pay attention after that. Other gems included “Il faut faire attention où on met les pieds, et le reste!” When it came to my love life, “Be careful where you put your feet. And your other extremities.” Or “Les gens sont bizarres” — “People are weird” — usually uttered when humans were being absurd. Let’s not forget the pragmatic, “Il faut se mettre un toit sur la tête.” “You need to put a roof on your head.” She also kept telling me as I was growing up, and even recently, “Il faut que tu te fasses une bonne vie.” “You have to create a good life for yourself.” And finally, when we were all with her as a family, she’d often proclaim proudly, “Qu’est ce qu’il y a de mieux que la famille?!” “Is there anything better than family?!” Her wisdom was condensed in dictums she’d dole out by the dozens. I still hear her offering me nuggets on how to live a better life.

She told the most scrumptious stories. Her mind was razor sharp. She had wit by the barrel. And her sense of humor was off the charts. The punchlines and lessons were varied and strong. She would cut to the point, was skillful about leaving unnecessary details out, and knew what points to amplify to make her tale appealing. Her inner world was active. A master of the theater of the mind, I always thought she could have made a brilliant career as a radio host.

As COVID started, I decided to call her every morning. She was the first person I spoke to after waking up. As I’d sip espresso, my daily conversations would put me in a pleasant mood, and work wonders to get me going for the long workday ahead. She’d always pump my tires up with confidence. Every time she saw me, she called me her “lingo d’or”, “her gold bar”. I’d respond that it was her that was a treasure for us. We’d smile. Laugh. And have another sip of our beverages.

Knowing she’s now gone, I miss that smile that said she knew more than she let on. I miss the wisdom I’d receive anytime we sat down. I miss her unique perspective on the world. I miss the way her mind worked. I miss our shared laughter, usually over the absurdity of mankind. I miss our tea sessions that turned into philosophical discussions. I miss the comfort I felt when I was around her.

Part of me still can’t quite comprehend why I can’t FaceTime her in the morning. Her departure from this plane hasn’t quite sunk in. But I’m lucky enough to have had the best grandmother. My love for her hasn’t waned. And it won’t. Ever. Her voice still resides in my head. My only small consolation is I’m able to carry her with me every day. I hope others feel the same way.

Goodbye Mims. We love(d) you.