My precious grandma is gone. She passed away in her sleep, which is what she wanted and was begging all of us to pray for. I don't even have words to express the deep sadness at her home-going.
As a child, I spent almost as much time at her house as I did ours. I remember it like the back of my hand. I can tell you what her curtains smelled like because I hid behind them, much to her chagrin. I can still hear the traffic slurring by on "L" Street, her windows always slightly ajar and the curtains waving softly in the breeze. Her grandfather clock chimed every quarter-hour, and I can still hear the tick of the pendulum. She had these brightly colored bead dolls with parasols that someone had given her, probably one of the patients. I spent hours playing with them on her dining room table. I also remember countless hours of playing Grandpa’s Dice, Yahtzee, or Scrabble with her. She patiently taught us how to play, guiding us with our moves when we were too young to understand.
She had an air conditioner in her bedroom only. It was the most comfortable room in her house, and I slept in her bed many nights when I was a child. I can still hear the hum of that window unit. There was a heater grate on the floor in the hallway that we had to gingerly walk around to avoid searing our toes. Every room had its own distinct smell. Her bathroom, still stuck in the '50s, had a musty smell and the original Pepto-Bismol pink tiles on the counter and in the shower. The dark backroom, the “dungeon,” we thought of it as children, had the strangely intertwined odor of Grandpa and video cassettes. There was rust-colored shag carpet in the den, along with an old-fashioned black rotary-dial telephone. An original. I can still see her pick up the heavy receiver from her recliner and pen something down on drug-letterhead notepad. The TV was always tuned to the news or one of their favorite game shows, like Wheel of Fortune or The Price is Right. When we stayed overnight, we sat with TV trays in the den and ate toasted cheese-and-meat sandwiches with her famous onion-soup-mix mayonnaise, along with a hot bowl of vegetable beef soup or Spaghettios. When I'm sick or down, I still make those sandwiches. It’s comfort food. When I heard about the cancer, I immediately called to get her Swiss steak and teriyaki chicken recipes. I then went into baking mode and made both recipes that week. They are a piece of her, and I want to keep her memory always with me.
Most importantly, she taught me all about Jesus, and I know every story in the Bible because of her Good News Club which she faithfully held in her home for at least two decades. She witnessed to hundreds of boys and girls who sat and watched her teach the message of Christ using nothing but flannel graphs. I can still hear her singing the songs. She taught Sunday school up until three weeks before her death.
She was an anchor to me, a safe harbor. Hers was the place I threatened my parents I would run away to when I wanted to run away from home. There aren't enough words to express the magnitude of her effect on me. Grandma was my home away from home. To think of her being gone is like stripping me of a piece of who I am. She was ours. She belonged to us. We belonged to her.
As a child, I spent almost as much time at her house as I did ours. I remember it like the back of my hand. I can tell you what her curtains smelled like because I hid behind them, much to her chagrin. I can still hear the traffic slurring by on "L" Street, her windows always slightly ajar and the curtains waving softly in the breeze. Her grandfather clock chimed every quarter-hour, and I can still hear the tick of the pendulum. She had these brightly colored bead dolls with parasols that someone had given her, probably one of the patients. I spent hours playing with them on her dining room table. I also remember countless hours of playing Grandpa’s Dice, Yahtzee, or Scrabble with her. She patiently taught us how to play, guiding us with our moves when we were too young to understand.
She had an air conditioner in her bedroom only. It was the most comfortable room in her house, and I slept in her bed many nights when I was a child. I can still hear the hum of that window unit. There was a heater grate on the floor in the hallway that we had to gingerly walk around to avoid searing our toes. Every room had its own distinct smell. Her bathroom, still stuck in the '50s, had a musty smell and the original Pepto-Bismol pink tiles on the counter and in the shower. The dark backroom, the “dungeon,” we thought of it as children, had the strangely intertwined odor of Grandpa and video cassettes. There was rust-colored shag carpet in the den, along with an old-fashioned black rotary-dial telephone. An original. I can still see her pick up the heavy receiver from her recliner and pen something down on drug-letterhead notepad. The TV was always tuned to the news or one of their favorite game shows, like Wheel of Fortune or The Price is Right. When we stayed overnight, we sat with TV trays in the den and ate toasted cheese-and-meat sandwiches with her famous onion-soup-mix mayonnaise, along with a hot bowl of vegetable beef soup or Spaghettios. When I'm sick or down, I still make those sandwiches. It’s comfort food. When I heard about the cancer, I immediately called to get her Swiss steak and teriyaki chicken recipes. I then went into baking mode and made both recipes that week. They are a piece of her, and I want to keep her memory always with me.
Most importantly, she taught me all about Jesus, and I know every story in the Bible because of her Good News Club which she faithfully held in her home for at least two decades. She witnessed to hundreds of boys and girls who sat and watched her teach the message of Christ using nothing but flannel graphs. I can still hear her singing the songs. She taught Sunday school up until three weeks before her death.
She was an anchor to me, a safe harbor. Hers was the place I threatened my parents I would run away to when I wanted to run away from home. There aren't enough words to express the magnitude of her effect on me. Grandma was my home away from home. To think of her being gone is like stripping me of a piece of who I am. She was ours. She belonged to us. We belonged to her.
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