Goodbye, Granny.

My Granny passed away yesterday, and even from all these miles away I can feel her absence. I can feel all the years of not knowing her more. I don't know her stories. Her obituary on the funeral home's web site revealed one such story. Apparently, she married my grandfather in the fall of 1934, in Mineola, Arkansas, and then the following spring they walked to Texas together! There must be dozens of those little stories that I'll never know. I only know her hugs and cold fried potatoes waiting for us late at night when we arrived at her house. And heating water in a big pan on the stove to pour into the bathtub when we had to take a bath. Partyline phones to play on with my cousin Donna. Yellow cake with chocolate icing. (And Granny would let me have a big piece.) The broken deep freeze was just a cupboard for dry goods, housing sugar and flour, and best of all chocolate Quik. Gooey oatmeal and free reign of the sugar bowl. Always a spit can beside the bed. ("Ptooey!") Granny would give me little jobs to do, like heading up the road to the neighbor's house to buy some of their fresh eggs. (I marveled at the idea that they had their own chickens and eggs.) We could walk to the Red River from Granny's house. Sometimes we did. At Granny's house I was free to run around and play outside, explore, step on the "puff pods" Granny called "Devil's Snuff," sometimes ride a horse. And while I was freely being my tomboy-est self, Granny's stories were all in the house. I guess I missed out on that part while making some favorite childhood memories. But I knew she loved me and liked me. And I loved her and liked her too. She's probably the only person I will ever know who always wished you luck, just for good measure I suppose. I don't think I ever looked Granny in the face without seeing her smile back at me. Maybe it's best that I wasn't there for the end, to remember her sad days, no longer smiling. Maybe it's best that I feel a million miles away right now and can't be there for her funeral. Maybe that will keep me remembering her smile and hugs and lucky wishes most. I will miss her dearly.

Her obituary also read: "An iron-willed housewife and mother, Alma would begin her daily routine before daybreak and toiled non-stop ‘til well past sunset." I should strive to be more like Granny. I may not look up one day to see that I have five children, sixteen grandchildren, forty great-grandchildren, and three great-great-grandchildren, but I hope to have even half of the love in my life represented by those numbers.

Goodbye, Granny. I'll remember that your house was always a happy place. And I'll remember you smiling.