Smiling down on us, memories from Rachel

It  has been a long time since I saw Grandma. These pictures are from one of my last visits with her. We were out in Utah, visiting from Mississippi, and Jacob was 6 months old. She cooed and fussed over him, and told me how sweet he was and congratulated me on motherhood. Although Jacob doesn't remember her, I am so grateful that we have these pictures I can show him of his lovely great-grandmother. 

I have very fond memories of spending holidays at Grandma and Grandpa's house. Grandma would have an enormous spread of food, including a separate table especially for what seemed to me like an endless assortment of sweets. Her crispy, buttery sugar cookies, fudge, chocolate chip bars, and apple pies were almost more temptation than a little girl could handle. (And honestly, I didn't handle it. I was instructed to eat one dessert, and I'd always sneak back and pop more in my mouth when my mom wasn't looking.)

For Independence Day, there was the old-fashioned ice cream maker, which I'm pretty sure we'd fight over. There were sparklers for the kids, and a huge yard in which to run while waving them around wildly. (Is anyone else amazed that no one suffered major burns and we never burned down the field next door? I am.)

At Christmas there was the big tree, all decked out in coordinating blue ornaments, standing in front of the big window. When I think back on that tree, I realize how carefully Grandma placed each ornament, how much attention was given to each space on the tree, and what great talent she had for arranging decorations, flowers or otherwise. And then there was the little tree in the sun room, covered with the ornaments that were dedicated to her grandchildren. She knew and loved each one of us. I still have my brass jack-in-the-box with my name etched on the back. There were Christmas Eve gifts for us under her tree, which ranged from articles of clothing to jewelry to games.

All these memories I have reflect the life of a woman who worked tirelessly to provide her family with good experiences and delicious food. She loved us, and, although her eyesight and hearing faded, and she was far away from me, I have never doubted that she cared for each of us.

I find comfort in the thought of her the way she was at 25 or 30, free from aches and pains, eyes bright and perfect. I picture her watching us and listening to our voices with renewed senses. I will miss her, of course, but it is a comfort to know that we will see her again, and that in the meantime, she is smiling down on us.