Grandmother

As she wiped the kitchen bar down after a meal, my grandmother would thumb crumbs into a dish rag. I would watch in wonderment, certain that no one could be more thorough after suppertime. She was a beautiful woman, stately and polished, the kind of woman I wanted to be when I grew up. The first thing I would do when I got to her house was run right to her jewelry drawer, where she kept beautiful bejeweled hair combs and pins, long strands of pearls, and dangling earrings that added just the right sparkle to an afternoon snack. In her kitchen, she had a drawer full of rolling pins, where I would choose my favorite--lines and familiar scratches, red handles grooved where her own hands had been--whether there was any rolling to be done or not. In her front yard were two big flower barrels, where she would plant petunias as purple as the twilight, and the vines would flow down the sides and almost touch the ground, tiny trumpets announcing that summer had truly begun. My grandmother was in tune with her surroundings, and it seemed like, wherever she went, the sun shone a little brighter, the birds sang a little louder.

I credit my love for shoes, purses, and things that sparkle to my grandmother. She was particular, whether she wanted to be or not. She custom ordered her shoes from the Abilene Bootery because her feet were so narrow, and when she found a pair she liked, she ordered them in every color. While my feet are long and skinny like hers, they're not so narrow that I have to special order shoes, but that doesn't keep me from buying the same shoe in more than one color.

My granddaddy tells a story about the early days, when times where tough and ends were difficult to meet. He and my grandmother would split a can of tuna fish, but it was okay, because there was no one they would rather split a can of tuna fish with than each other. And, in an indirect way, that's how my grandmother taught me to love. Whether the last drink of her sweet tea or as simple as a moment of her time, my grandmother loved unconditionally. My grandmother was the devoted daughter of a doting mother, my Mema, master of fried catfish; sweet, pickled beets; and sourdough "Mema" bread, a recipe I have not yet mastered. She taught my grandmother those old family recipes, like Thanksgiving dressing, pound cake, and home-made ice cream. They shared a love of flowers and growing things, whether vegetables and flowers or children and grandchildren.

My grandmother was the salutatorian of her class. She married and loved her husband, Carroll, a war veteran who worked as hard as the day is long. They travelled and worked hard together, he in his business and she in her home and church, and would while away the night playing Skip-Bo and watching "Wheel of Fortune," or "Wheel," as she lovingly referred to it.

She loved her children, a loving daughter and a rough-and-tumble son; she loved the intelligent man who loved her daughter and the kind, loving girl who married her son; and, until the day she died, she loved the children her children and grandchildren gave her, three grandsons, a granddaughter, two granddaughters-in-law, one grandson-in-law, and two great-grandsons--that's us. She gave us everything our hearts desired: Fruit Rollups and Kool-aid until one of us threw up; coloring books and markers, which usually ended up everywhere but on the page; and a winning hand of Old Maid, even though she knew we cheated by dog-earing the cards.

Toward the end of her life, a life that was spent taking care of others, she was taken care of. Her family was with her to the end, and, although sometimes she didn't understand, they were there, day after day, returning the love that she so freely gave.

As I think about the ways in which my grandmother has shaped my own life, I see her tender heart that is my own, her mission of loving children who are less fortunate, and acceptance of anyone she encountered. Thank you, Grandmother, for teaching me how to love, to be open-minded, and to accept others the way that Jesus does. We will miss you this Christmas, your favorite holiday, but I promise we'll have a good time, just the way we would if you were here.