My Grandma

I always wondered how she was up so early, finishing Sunday morning crossword puzzles, while draining her daily intake of coffee at a sharp eight each day. My Grandma Bobbie seemed to have an extra gear; clearly she was never taught early mornings were supposed to be reserved for catching the last dreams, snagging the final moments of rest, or perhaps trickling out the concluding remnants of spittle before one must finally arise. Not Grandma; I could always spot her seated at the kitchen table attired in her formal pink bathrobe, complemented perfectly by the elegant waves of gray hair that would challenge that of Einstein’s. She was in her own heaven, a comfort zone that gave her the solitude she needed to solve the clue to 21-Down.

Born into her world of honoring the guest over the server, manners over discourtesies, and eggplant parmesan over Kraft Mac and Cheese, we were sometimes at odds with one another. Grandma’s rough exterior, completed with her craggy voice, graveled by years of smoking, led to tense moments between the two of us. While I was advocating for Nintendo 64, she would insist that I begin the likes of S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. Our relationship consisted of so many spats, Ali and Frazier would have had to fight at a weekly rate to parallel our consistency. Although our disputes tended to leave me with a bitter aftertaste rather than a bloody nose and punches were never quite thrown, the principle was there. What I saw through my immature vision was a cranky old lady who was at a loss for fun. However, my Grandma was spreading a foundation under my youth, one that preached tough love, one that demanded I understand and abide by moral laws based on respect and reverence.

As the years progressed and I became more aware of my intellectual capabilities, I began to understand the intricacies of my Grandma. As I started to grow an affection towards reading, we soon found ourselves in endless conversations on literary topics. Whether it was the relationship Lennie and George shared in Of Mice and Men, or the crude ending to Lord of the Flies, Grandma was always willing to provide an open ear to my thoughts. With time our connection deepened, as subtle hints began to show we had grown at ease amongst one another. I realized how much this woman truly cared for me, how her heart opened with endless realms of caring, kindness, and passion towards those around her. It was as though she had cracked the seemingly unbreakable vault, her patience and persistence had finally paid off, as her unending love was being attained.

Every Christmas my grandparents would travel up from their home in Arizona to join my father’s relatives for a festive holiday. As my friends were unwrapping new skateboards and walkmans, my Grandma graced my cousins and me with gifts that took a more unique approach. Each year I opened my boxes fully expecting something peculiar, yet never having a clue as to what exactly it would contain. Some years it would be an artifact from nature, such as a Native American arrowhead; other years I would find a giant book on constellations, accompanied with a demand that I spend at least five summer nights scouring the sky for Orion’s Belt with Grandma. The gifts weren’t always eye-catching, seldom were they ostentatious, but I could always count on the fact the thought behind each one came directly from her heart.

Each March, as the Wisconsin snow finally began to melt, a sense of renewed happiness falls upon us. Yet last year my Grandma was lying in a hospital bed, crippled by cancer. Realizing she might not be with us much longer, I sent her a letter with my father, as he reunited with his family at her bedside, bearing my thoughts and prayers. According to my aunts, by the time my father was finished reading the letter to my Grandma, he had been reduced to tears. I like to think of those as tears of joy, tears that felt pain but were present out of appreciation for everything the smiling woman had passed onto the world. She defined herself by how she lived each day, and looked to improve the lives of those around her with each minute she breathed on. In my mind, those tears were of remembrance and honor, sorrow and exultation, and that’s exactly what Grandma would want me to think.

Ben Barnett

Bobbie’s Grandson