My Grandmother

(Trigger Warning-- for my Mom, I will talk about Grandma; you’ll cry, too. You’ve been warned. I did not stop crying for a moment while writing it.)

What do I remember most about my grandmother? I remember She was a wildly resourceful and creative woman in many ways. She survived the Great Depression, so every time I saw her, she had recycled scraps she had found around her house into things like Christmas ornaments. The back room of her home was filled with half-finished ceramic work, paintings, yarn, tins of buttons, and sewing projects. She taught me how to sew, braid, and make little handmade gifts. I remember learning how to draw from tracing the coloring books in her living room and a large container of broken crayons that I can still smell.

She was always so happy that I was creative– like her, another writer. Though it never became more than a passing fancy for her, she was prone to writing verses of poetry upon the edges of old envelopes and napkins. She was in love with nature, the beauty of the wilderness viewed from her kitchen window into the backyard.

She had a profound influence on my want to become a writer. One of my regrets is that she never saw any of my work published. I have never been confident in my wordsmithing, but she had all the faith in the world that I could do it if I put my mind to it. She always had pens, notepads, and spare notebooks for me. She always had words of encouragement and wisdom to share.

My grandma married my grandfather when she was young. She had five children. She adored them and subsequently us, the grandchildren God provided her for having patience with her kids. The smell of her home is so heavily tied to my memory of her. One of my grandmother’s favorite hobbies was ensuring her family was cared for. She always had more than enough to share, whether it was a hot meal, muffins, cookies, or coffee.

I remember sitting in her living room while we waited for school closings to list potential snow days. I remember breakfast at her house while we waited for the school bus. I remember evenings doing homework at her kitchen table and listening to the old men, my grandfather and his friends, talking over coffee. She modeled how to love, be loved by a husband, and make a relationship work even when you did not always see eye-to-eye. (Mom and Dad did an excellent job of this, too. I assume they modeled it for my parents, too.)

She was an avid canner and made some of the best jelly, jam, pickles, and salsa I had ever tasted. I have yet to taste an apple butter on par with hers. We could mark the seasons by the smells wafting from their little three-bedroom house. You didn’t even have to make it into the house. You could smell it from the front porch, and it was terrific.

We spent holidays together, cramped with relatives and Christmas breakfasts. It’s taken writing about her again to drudge up all the old memories and how much I miss her. When she passed, it broke me; it was like losing my best friend. There was nothing I couldn’t talk to her about. The stablest constant in my life was g0ne, which was not easy.

But, though her passing still stings, I have all of the beautiful memories of her. She lived long enough to see me marry and start my own family. She saw my mother become a grandmother, and she passed the baton. She hated pictures of herself, but I still have a photo of her taken shortly after my eldest daughter was born. It is of all four of us, four generations of mothers, for a Mother’s Day lunch, a blessing not many get, and I will treasure it forever.

I want to encourage my children and grandchildren with her passion and love for me.