My Grandma-Part 1

     This feels disconnected, but I'm afraid if I wait any longer, I'll never get started. 
  A few months ago, my mom took Sam to the doctor for a physical. A new nurse was doing his intake and chatting with them. After a few minutes of conversation, it was determined that the nurse had grown up in the same ward that my grandparents have lived in for so many years. "Elaine and Jack!" she exclaimed "I love them!" My mom told her that Grandma had passed away about six weeks before and the nurse immediately burst into tears. She proceeded to tell Sam and Mom all of all her tender memories of Grandma, how they vacationed in Canada together and about how kind and good Grandma always was. She said that Grandma was the best woman she had ever known.
  I have tried and tried for the past many weeks to write something about my Grandma-about her life and her passing. It was both peaceful and profound, and the words I've been looking for have been just beyond reach. Her life was the kind of life that leaves two grown women and one teenage boy crying together in an exam room over her goodness and example, and the ache that comes from knowing that she can no longer put her arm around your shoulders and tell you that you are somebody special.

   

   I have had it in my head that I needed a clothesline for awhile now. I finally picked out a rack at ikea and I've been hanging our clothes in the sunshine as often as I can swing it. Last night I got the kids to bed, then went outside to take down and fold the laundry. It was dusk. The air was a little cooler and for a moment life seemed slow and peaceful. When I got to the end of the laundry I threw my dress over my arm to carry inside.  I stopped on the porch and smelled it. Memories came floating all around me and through me. Memories of my grandma hanging clothes on the line. Of hiding between the drying sheets. It smelled like sunshine and gentleness.
   The smell reminded me of grandma making beds on the couches for sleep-overs, or being wrapped up in a towel after a bath. It made me think of being handed a rag to wipe down the picnic table for Sunday dinners and the sheets covering her nice living room furniture. And though I don't know why, it reminded me of her nightgowns-which always struck me as remarkably glamorous for an old lady.
   I stood alone on the porch cluttered with sand and toys and let my grandma wash over me for a few long moments. I don't think it's any coincidence that I feel more connected to my grandma when I clean and cook. When I take care of others, I feel like I'm becoming a little more like her.

She took care of everyone

She cleaned

She educated

She danced

Her eyes twinkled
She was a flirt
She was a friend
She was faithful
She knew there was no substitute for integrity and she cherished her good name.

  I can't help but be pleased when I look at my babies. They have excellent muscle tone, which, to my grandma, was of utmost importance. She never failed to comment upon a baby's muscle tone (or lack thereof). She knew that all a baby needed-all a person needed, was to be surrounded by love. Nobody in the world could make you feel as loved as my grandma.