It won't because she was sweet

My Aunt May is dying. She is 94 years old and has been in a nursing home for a few years. She is the last of the Carter siblings for whom my oldest son is named. She is a fireball. She is strong. She is smart. And now, it is her time to go.

Over the past few years, I've experienced death in many different ways. My grandmother had Alzheimer's and experienced a very slow and difficult decline. She was the first family member or friend that I lost. I was sad but not destroyed.

My other grandmother, Honey, moved to California with my parents when she was around 90. I didn't get to see her much or talk to her in her last years. She was 97 when she died. She died in much the same way that her sister, my Aunt May, is going. She was just worn out of living. Again, I was sad - I lost a great champion in Honey. She believed that I was as close to perfect as God ever made, and I loved her dearly for her belief in me and the strength she taught me.

Next to go was my grandfather. He was one of my dearest friends. It was the first loss that sent me to the floor, knees buckled, tears streaming, and actual physical grief coming forth with no way for me to control it. He told me that he didn't want to go just days before he died. I didn't want him to go either. I was pissed off at God for a long time even though Granddaddy was 94 when he died. It wasn't exactly a surprise

Then, my daddy got sick. So very sick. Parkinson's and dementia took him slowly and cruelly. He died in February of 2011, and I felt relief. I felt relief for him and for my mother who was his primary care giver in spite of her ongoing battle with ovarian cancer. I missed my daddy for a long time before he died. I mourned his death, and I still miss him now, but again, I managed.

What came next was completely different. 364 days after my daddy died, my best friend, my soul sister, my person, she died. Gone. Left this world. Left her husband, her kids, her parents, her brother, and her friends. Some days I'm so angry. Most days I'm just sad. Often it feels like we are all just kind of standing still, holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Susan is gone. What happens next?

What in the world are we all supposed to do now?

It's like that when someone young dies. You don't exactly make long term plans with your daddy who has a degenerative disease or with your 97 year old grandmother. But with your best friend of decades? You plan things. You plan trips. You plan things for your boys. You plan retirement. You dream together because you are peers. I can't imagine the plans that she had with her family.

What do you do with all of those plans?

I know I have to let it go. I have to send it down the stream.

It's just not that easy.

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Kevin and I made a trip down to Georgia for him to meet my relatives there. They are awesome people, and I wanted him to spend a little time with them. His favorite story to tell from that trip is about meeting Aunt May. We got to talking about my grandmother, May's older sister, and her nickname, "Honey." Kevin asked Aunt May why we all called my grandmother "Honey," and Aunt May replied without a moment's hesitation,

"Well it won't because she was sweet."

I love that woman. Thank you, Aunt May, for all you did in helping raise my momma to be the woman she is today. I wish you peace and comfort.

Bloggers I would invite to my birthday party

Today is Kevin's birthday. Let's get that out of the way so we can talk about something far more important. (Kidding, of course. Happy birthday to the love of my life.)

Today this blog is five years old. Usually blog milestones fly right past me because, you know, who really cares? However, since a lot of my favorite bloggers started up all around the same time, I've been noticing five year anniversaries a lot lately.

Instead of talking about me, which is of course, what usually happens around here (What? It's a personal blog. What do you expect?), I have decided to celebrate my five year blogging anniversary by sharing it with the bloggers who have impacted me. The women in my blog reader who make me want to keep reading and keep writing.

The bloggers I love tell stories. They are deeply personal. They are brilliant writers. They are funny. They are smart. They aren't trying to sell me anything. They are authentic. They long to be heard - really heard. They are women who I consider friends - in a 21st century kind of way.

Because one of my favorite things about blogging is the community, I've decided to celebrate five years of blogging by sharing some of those bloggers with you. You can thank me later.

************************************************

Crib Chronicles

I'm starting with Bon because she has the most beautiful post up today about her grandfather. Her last living grandparent who died last week.

Her words sit right down on the couch with me. I know that relationship. I know that love between grandfather and granddaughter. I cry with her because my heart hurts for her, but also because she took me right back to my own losses.

It is what powerful writing does. It involves you.

Go. Read. Get involved.

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This is part of my fifth blog birthday party. These are simply bloggers I have been reading for five years and have impacted me. They are being featured in no particular order.

Shirley's Shoepeg Corn Casserole

One of the things I make each year for the Boo-Shamoopie annual Thanksgiving blowout is this Shoepeg Corn Casserole. I almost feel guilty printing the recipe because it is so stinking easy, that this part of the meal feels like a cop out on my part. But Boo's husband loves it, and I've been making it every Thanksgiving dinner for over a decade now.

If you need something to take with you to a dinner, this is super easy, impossible to mess up, and you can make it the night before. Just wait to add the Ritz crackers until you are ready to bake it, and remember that if you have a refrigerated Pyrex dish, you want to put it in the cold oven and let it heat up as the oven preheats. Lest your Pyrex shatter. Which would be bad.

Shirley's Shoepeg Corn Casserole

1/2 C chopped celery
1/2 C chopped onion
1/4 C chopped bell pepper (I use orange because it's pretty and I hate green ones)
1 can cream of celery soup
8 oz. sour cream
1 C grated cheese (I usually use cheddar, but have been known to just use a combo of whatever was in the fridge at the time)
2 cans shoepeg corn, drained
1 can French style green beans, drained
1 sleeve Ritz crackers
1 stick melted butter

Mix first 8 ingredients. Pour into a long, shallow baking dish (I use a 9x13, but I also don't measure very well, so I often am just dumping random amounts of the ingredients into a bowl until it looks good, so I'm not much help there, am I?). Top with crushed crackers. Drizzle melted butter over the top. Bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees.

See? Isn't that embarrassing? So incredibly easy, but I promise, people will love it. Unless your people are like my father-in-law, who doesn't like anything. But says he does. Well, he doesn't like this, or rice, or grits, or mushrooms, or several other things that appear on my table frequently. But he eats them anyway. Except mushrooms.

Papa does approve of The Pie, however, and I think you should click on over and remind yourself of said pie and how good it looks. It's something else you should add to your Thanksgiving table fo' sho'.

Granddaddy's cornbread

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite days of the year. In my previous life, I always hosted an Orphans' Thanksgiving at our house. I would buy the biggest bird I could find, gather all of our friends who were stuck in town with no family, and we would throw down for the day and into the next.

I started cooking days in advance. There were no fewer than four dozen biscuits coming out of my oven. I made a giant pitcher of cajun bloody mary's that we started in on first thing in the morning. Sometimes people would bring their favorite family dish to share, but most of the time, I cooked all of it - because that was the way I liked it.

By midnight, the leftovers had been put away, pulled out and perused, and put away all over again. There was a stock pot with the turkey carcass simmering away on the stove so that my freezer would be well stocked with stock. The pies sat out on the table tempting those who had any sliver of room left, and no one cared if they were using their same wine glass that they started with earlier in the day.

I have a stash of recipes that I used every year with the exception of the turkey. I always looked for a new turkey recipe to try. Kept things a little fresh each year.

Now we have a more traditional family Thanksgiving that we share every year with our good friends Boo and Tom. Sometimes her family comes up from Florida as well. This year, we will have four children at our table, three grandparents, and three couples. Boo will have bird duty, and I think she's leaning towards a brine. Yummy.

Blogging everyday in November gives me a chance to share some of my favorite recipes for Thanksgiving. I'm starting with this recipe that I need to laminate at some point. It is in my granddaddy's hand writing and is the first step in recreating my grandmomma's dressing.

Editorial note for all y'all non-Southerners reading: Dressing is what you would call stuffing, except you don't put it in the bird's butthole, and it's way more moist and tasty.

Cornbread

1 Cup flour
1 Cup yellow cornmeal*
2-4 Tbsp sugar (I use only 2)
1 Tbsp Baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/4 cup cooking oil or shortening**

In one bowl, stir and blend flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt, and baking powder. In another bowl, beat together eggs, milk, and oil. Mix meal mix with egg mix, and stir until batter is smooth. Do not over beat.
Bake at 425 in well greased 9x9x2 pan*** for 20-25 minutes or until golden brown.

* If you can get locally ground, it really does make a difference, and Granddaddy actually says you can use yellow, white, or blue
** I use canola oil, and a little less than called for because I melt about 2 Tbsp of butter in the iron skillet that I've heated up before pouring in the batter.
***I never cook cornbread in anything but cast iron. This recipe calls for your biggest skillet most likely.

You'll need to make this a few days before you plan to put your dressing together because you have to let it sit out and get stale.

Next, we'll talk about my grandmomma's dressing which my brother and I have tried tirelessly to recreate. We've both come up with yummy dressing, but I don't think either of us have hit it spot on yet.

Time enough to know

My brother and I grew up about a mile from on set of grandparents and just across town from our other grandmother. We saw them regularly. Spent every holiday with them. Had sleepovers with them. Ate Sunday dinners with them.

Now, my parents are 12 hours away. They live around the corner from my brother and his family. Momma talks about the grandchildren coming to play in their backyard. She tells me about the meals they share. Even the Fourth of July was a family gathering complete with a new croquet set for the grandparents' backyard. Bro's kids are taking full advantage of having their grandparents so close by, and that really makes me happy. They are growing up like I remember growing up. Close to family.

My children will have to do things a little differently. We will have to have phone calls and pictures. Emails and blogs replace time around the table. We have to cram a whole lot of loving into short bursts of time.

That's what we did last week. Little Bird spent the week with his Nana and Gee. They were a willing audience and always had a lap available for book time. They were initiated into the Yo Gabba Gabba fan club. Bird was quickly following his Gee around, knocking persistently on the bedroom door when Gee would manage to escape for a moment. There were hugs and kisses and "night night's" for everyone.

Today, Bird and I spent some time looking at pictures on the computer. We got to one of him sitting on Nana's lap, and he pointed while he said, "Nana."

"Yes, that's your Nana, Sweetie. Good job."

We got the the picture above, and I pointed to my daddy.

"Who is that?"

"Baby!"

"Yes, and who is that with Baby?"

"Gee!"

He called them both by name. I kissed his head and sent up a little thankful prayer that it was enough time for him to know them.

I could have just asked, but then I wouldn't have this funny story

Christopher and I spent the day with Papa today. We went to the Farmer's Market, he helped me get the house ready for a showing, and then we crashed at his place with the dogs until it was time to get Lovely from school. It was a nice day.

Papa fascinates Christopher. The two of them talked to each other back and forth today for several minutes. I'm not sure who was imitating who, but it ended with Christopher busting out in a big belly laugh at his grandfather.

Papa is funny. Even when he doesn't mean to be.

I dropped some not too subtle hints about how much I needed a nap. As in, "I sure could use a nap." Of course I was hoping for an offer to watch Mr. Kicky while I caught a few zzzzzzzzz's.

Instead, Papa agreed with me that it was a good afternoon for a nap, and kicked back in his chair for a snooze while Christopher and I hung out on the floor, playing with pieces of carpet fuzz.

Makes me laugh, he does.

He's a good man, that one. Kevin says I was lucky to meet him after he mellowed. I think I am just lucky period.

So now that's done

Well that's it. I finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows at about 6:30 this evening. It took me about 5 hours to read, which is quite ridiculous. I tried to slow down, simply because I didn't want it to be over. I just couldn't help myself though.

There are a couple of questions I have that are left unanswered, but it's a strong possibility that Lovely will be able to fill in the blanks. She gets all the details.

I'm not going to talk about it here just in case you haven't finished reading it. I will only say that I wasn't disappointed in the story. I was only disappointed to have it end.

My granddaddy and I used to send them back and forth in the mail along with the Tolkien books. He read the first three Potter books before he died, and when the fourth one was released, I was so sad that he wouldn't be able to finish the story with me. He liked them. Not as much as he liked Tolkien, but he liked them.

And so now it is all over. Until, of course, I get to read them to my children. And then it will all begin again.

A new level of hell is needed

Some people are beyond evil. Beyond what hell could punish. Beyond any concept of the world being inherently good.

My grandfather died in 2003. When he died, my father was still doing alright. He had his wits about him most of the time, but had a hard time with using his hands. The Parkinson's was young. My father, being the eldest son and the lawyer, was in charge of Granddaddy's estate. He promptly went about seeing that it was properly closed and settled in the correct manner.

In order to do this, he hired a lawyer from his old firm to be the executor. This lawyer who we will call The Ass, was mentored by my father. My father trusted him, and expected him to do a good job. I think I've already given away the fact that he did not. Do a good job.

It was brought to our attention over the last week by the new lawyer that Daddy hired to try and make The Ass finish his job and close the estate, that The Ass in fact, closed the estate over a year ago in the Mississippi courts. Over a year ago, the estate was closed, and now the question is: Where is all of the money?

Since the time The Ass took the role of executor of my Granddaddy's estate, he left the law firm (or was fired, we don't know), got a nasty and messy divorce, and began drinking heavily. When Bro would call to talk to him, Ass would dump his personal problems on him instead. When Mom would call to talk to him, he would ignore the messages and not call back.

When Daddy would call to talk to him, he would sit up and take note that Daddy was not the man he used to be. And then, we are afraid that he took advantage of that information and extorted the money from my Granddaddy's estate. And if that in fact is what happened, I cannot think of a jail cell or a punishment that I think is fair for him. To take advantage of your mentor after he has developed a debilitating disease is pure evil.

One day when I was a teenager, Daddy and I were driving down the highway in my hometown. There was a billboard for an ambulance chaser, and I asked him if he knew that lawyer. He said yes, that he did know him. I asked Daddy if he had ever had a case with that lawyer since Daddy was a defense attorney for the insurance companies. He said yes, that he had cases with the personal injury lawyer whose face graced the back of telephone books, billboards, and every television ad from 2 AM until 7 AM. Daddy said that usually those cases get settled out of court. I couldn't help but ask about the unusual ones, that went to trial. Daddy said, "I kicked his ass."

Of course he did. It was the only time he came close to bragging to me. Ever.

Sunday afternoon, my momma and I talked for a long time about the situation at hand. My momma said, "It's not about the money." I disagree. Granddaddy worked hard in his life, and it was important to him that he left his family something. And quite frankly, with my parents' health issues, they are going to need all the money they can get I'm afraid. So, yes. Part of it is about the money.

I get what she is saying though. The anger isn't over the money. The anger is over the fact that 5 years ago, The Ass wouldn't have even considered crossing my father. When my father was at that law firm, he was viewed with complete respect both in and out of the courtroom. People knew him as a man with impeccable ethics, but who would indeed "kick ass" when needed.

It is only the new version of my daddy, Daddy with Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, that The Ass dared to cross. Dared to steal from. To cheat. To hurt. That makes me not only angry, but it also breaks my heart.

There will likely be no way to recover the money. There will likely be, however, a way to put this man in jail.

I hope that we are all wrong, and this is some giant misunderstanding.

I'm afraid though, that it isn't. I'm afraid my parents have been ripped off by someone they trusted.

It's completely disgusting.

Pixie and the woman he loved

I have a family full of amazing women. This is something I don't take for granted. I have always tried to be grateful for the incredible examples I have had.

One of those women was my Aunt Pam. She was married to Honey's youngest brother who was a career Army man. They lived in North Carolina, and when I left Mississippi to go to college in the same town where they lived, they became like grandparents to me.

Aunt Pam grew up in England. When she was 14, she went to London, lied about her age, and signed up to be an ambulance driver. This was during WWII. She and Uncle Dadie met during the war. They got married. They had two children and lived all over the world. She lost much of her British accent, but retained a very distinctive pronunciation of certain words and always enunciated her consonants extremely clearly.

Aunt Pam smoked. A lot. When she was in her 70's, she liked to tell a story about how her doctor took a chest x-ray just to see what was there, because she smoked so much, and it was clear as a bell. She was just one of those people that could smoke, she would say. She smoked these very thin, long cigarettes, and at one time, used to put them in a holder like Cruella D'Ville.

Aunt Pam had a gin and tonic everyday at 5:00 PM. And possibly several more after that, but I don't know. It didn't matter to me. I thought she was perfect.

My freshman year of college, she had a birthday party for me. It was the same night as our winter formal, so me, my roommate, another friend of ours, and our dates, went over to Aunt Pam's and had cake. I have more pictures of the three of us (sans dates) in our pajamas. We spent the night over there, but I can't for the life of me remember the details. All I remember is that me and any of my friends were always welcome at Aunt Pam's and Uncle Dadie's.

After Uncle Dadie died, Aunt Pam got herself a little dog to keep her company. It was the ugliest and meanest little dog I have ever met. She named him Pixie, and that dog only loved her. But man, did he love her. And if you tried to love her too, you had better count your fingers before you go. He would take a couple of them if he could.

She eventually moved to Colorado to live near her daughter. She needed help, and she was alone in her town. I didn't see her after that, but we did our best to stay in touch.

One of Aunt Pam's great grandchildren was born on her birthday. She said to me, "You would think that at least a child born on my birthday could be named after me."

In our family, you name your children after who has come before them. I am a Temple, which was my great grandmother's maiden name. My father is a Junior, my brother a Third. My nephews and nieces are all named for a family member in at least one of their names. It is just what we do.

Aunt Pam wished for a child to be named after her. She deserved it. I told her a long time ago that if I ever had a little girl, I would see to it that she was named after her Great Great Aunt Pam. Her maiden name will be carried on, and I will teach my daughter about the woman for whom she was named. And I will hope that my daughter is like her. Minus the smoking.


One time, I asked my grandfather if he would just stick around long enough to meet one of my children. I wanted him to hold a baby of mine. I wanted that memory. He just laughed at me and said that I had better hurry up then. That was four years ago.

I think that is my only regret about not having children sooner. There are so many people in my family that I wished they could have known. But, hey. If everything keeps going as planned, Momma will still be around, and Daddy still has his "good days." This time last year, that is more than I thought I could ask for.

So, Aunt Pam, I'll miss you. If there is an afterlife, I hope you are getting to spend it with Dadie and that little mutt of yours. I hope you are happy, and I hope you have great knees now. I'll see you in Arlington soon.

Mother's Day, Part II

Here is a recycled post about one of my two very fabulous grandmothers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 8, 2006

My mother's mother was called Honey. She moved to Jackson around the time I was born so that my mother could take care of her. From the moment I met her, she lived in a retirement complex called "Madonna Manor." It was a dump by the time she moved out, but pretty nice in the beginning. Of course nothing in Jackson is free from crime, and by the time I was in college, there was a woman a couple of floors down from Honey who got raped in her apartment. If I heard that now, I would be panicking to get my grandmother out of that environment. In Jackson, you just buy an extra lock for your door because you've given up on moving somewhere completely safe.

I digress. Honey was a remarkable woman. She became a single parent in the 1940's when her lovely husband walked out on her, my mother, and her older brother. Realizing quickly that she was going to have to support these children, she decided to become a nurse. With childcare help from her younger sister in Georgia, Honey managed to make it through nursing school (a feat my ex-husband couldn't do with me paying the bills and having no children), establish a home for herself and her children, and even managed to get a grand piano for my mother who somehow never missed a piano lesson no matter what food was or was not in the cupboards.

She did all this without a driver's license. Honey never drove. I don't know why she never learned to drive. It made her seem older and more frail than she was though. I remember my mother always having to drive across town and take Honey somewhere. To the doctor. Shopping. To church. To the library. Wherever Honey needed to go, my mother was there to take her. Until I turned 15 and got my driver's license that is. Then I picked up some of the responsibility. There was this time I had to take her to the podiatrist. It ended badly with me dashing from the room trying to make it to a bathroom before vomiting. From that day forward I vowed to take care of my feet and get pedicures on a regular basis from clean places.

I digress again. There are too many stories to tell about Honey. If I don't tire of typing to myself, I'm sure I'll hit on many more. The point I wanted to make today was that Honey was about my mother's age now when I was born. For all of her complaining, for the million times she said, "I'm blind and I can't see" to anyone she thought was in earshot, for all the hours I had to sit in front of her vanity and have my hair ironed into doodoo curls, I know that she was one of the most remarkable women I could have had in my life.

The endurance of that woman was incredible. She was strong, stubborn, and smart. There was no model back then for single moms. There was no child support or alimony. There was just her sheer will and determination. The things I learned from Honey could spin off into another blog altogether.

The point? My grandchild will not have these things to say about my mother. For all the praise I have for Honey, I think my mother is twice the woman with twice the smarts and twice the determination. I can only imagine what she could teach my children. And what stories will they tell if their family is gone before their memories start?

This is not the way I imagined it would be.

Honey lived to be 97. She did eventually really lose her sight and became quite dependent the last 5 years of her life. However, she also picked up and moved across the country at 92 years old. When my parents decided to move to California, Honey didn't bat an eye. She said, "When do we leave?" She made new friends, experienced new cultures, and loved to tell her stories to anyone who would sit and listen.

Honey and my mother didn't always get along so well. They loved each other dearly, but I think 30 plus years of caretaking to someone as negatively vocal as Honey could be took a toll on my mother. In the days before she died though, Honey told my mother that although she wanted to live to be 100, she was content to know that she had lived long enough to see my mother fulfill God's plan for her life. Isn't that what every child wants to hear? That their parent thinks they done good?

Honey gave that to my mom, and it meant the world to her. Momma has given that to me all along though, and it has made all the difference in my life. I'm grateful she didn't make me wait until the end to let me know that she is proud of me.

Fight like hell

The peeing on sticks has begun. According to the sticks, the ovulating has not. So tonight, I drink. Red wine in honor of Mr. Gallo who died today at the age of 97. I will remember him as the dude whose name was on the cool wine bottles my mom bought in the 80's that had wide mouth, snap on lids, and made great vases afterwards. A toast.

Honey lived to be 97. She was my mother's mother. Maybe I've written about her already, but there is nothing about the woman that doesn't bear repeating.

She had the most beautiful chestnut brown hair with a hint of red. She had this hair until the day she died. I am not even kidding. And no artificial color ever touched her head. Ever. None. Zilch. You wouldn't believe it even if you saw it.

Honey, and that is indeed what we all called her, was not a sweet woman. I have a sneaking suspicion that the name was given to her sarcastically. But she loved me more than I can even describe. And I did nothing to earn it.

My momma was raised by Honey. Alone. Honey was a single parent in the 1940's, and she taught my momma well. Every success my momma had though, Honey clung to hard enough to squeeze the joy out of it for Momma. On the other side of the coin, every pain Momma had, Honey felt to the deepest part of her core. When my momma had cancer the first time, in 1980, Honey took it the hardest. Slowly but surely, I think Honey realized that Momma had learned from her how to fight like hell, and she wasn't going anywhere just yet.

Two more cancer diagnosis later . . .

This month, my momma, who is only 65, will go back to the doctor. The cancer doctor. And they will do tests and scans and let us know if the miraculous disappearance of cancer is still miraculous. When I do pray, it is the first thing for which I pray.


The New Girl is talking about aging parents. The loss of home. She lost her mother before there were grandchildren. The order of life's events is all wrong. I get that.

Daniel is talking about his wife. And in talking about his wife, he has to talk about cancer. While I know that most people read his words and take cancer away, I think that the pregnancy loss is what I ache for. You can fight cancer. I ache for Leanne's loss and then for her fight. In that order. Today there was a miraculous pet scan. I looked at the pictures, and it reminded me to pray. Pray for Leanne, who I don't know, and pray for my mother. Both of these women should have miracles. Both of these women are mothers. Both of these women have much more life to live.

Karaoke Diva is laying out her desires and proclaiming war on whatever gets in her way. I love this. I love reading how she is taking it all on, but strong enough to admit the fear. That is how I want to pursue this next pregnancy.


I read these people's thoughts. I read their words, and sometimes I have to touch the screen as that tear falls down my cheek. I wish that I didn't connect, and that they didn't have this pain in their lives to share.

I think of Honey who fought like hell. Honey, who had no one to talk to, confide in, and no one to relate to, and I wonder just how it was that she made it. All the way to 97. With perfect hair.

Because little girls love their granddaddies

Updated below

J over at Oh the Joys lost her grandfather yesterday. What do you do for someone who you have never officially met and lives too far away to take a casserole?

I was hoping that we could let her know we understand.

Being still relatively new to the blogosphere, I'm sort of making this up as I go along. I thought though, that whoever has a mind to do so, could write about their grandfather in honor of J's Ady. What a great name, by the way, Ady. If you will, leave a comment here linking to your post about your grandfather, and we'll get them over to J.

My granddaddy was my best friend. That is not the first time I have typed that on this blog. This is us on his birthday. I was 18 and he was turning 80.


I hope there are at least a couple of you who can join in and leave a word or two about your grandfather(s). Then when J joins back in the blogging, she will know we have been thinking about her and her family.

Thanks.

AcadeMama left her story in the comments. That is also a great idea. If you haven't already, please say a little something about your grandfather. Or you could just pop over and read what J wrote to her grandfather and leave her a comment directly.

My mother's mother was called Honey. She moved to Jackson around the time I was born so that my mother could take care of her. From the moment I met her, she lived in a retirement complex called "Madonna Manor." It was a dump by the time she moved out, but pretty nice in the beginning. Of course nothing in Jackson is free from crime, and by the time I was in college, there was a woman a couple of floors down from Honey who got raped in her apartment. If I heard that now, I would be panicking to get my grandmother out of that environment. In Jackson, you just buy an extra lock for your door because you've given up on moving somewhere completely safe.

I digress. Honey was a remarkable woman. She became a single parent in the 1940's when her lovely husband walked out on her, my mother, and her older brother. Realizing quickly that she was going to have to support these children, she decided to become a nurse. With childcare help from her younger sister in Georgia, Honey managed to make it through nursing school (a feat my ex-husband couldn't do with me paying the bills and having no children), establish a home for herself and her children, and even managed to get a grand piano for my mother who somehow never missed a piano lesson no matter what food was or was not in the cupboards.

She did all this without a driver's license. Honey never drove. I don't know why she never learned to drive. It made her seem older and more frail than she was though. I remember my mother always having to drive across town and take Honey somewhere. To the doctor. Shopping. To church. To the library. Wherever Honey needed to go, my mother was there to take her. Until I turned 15 and got my driver's license that is. Then I picked up some of the responsibility. There was this time I had to take her to the podiatrist. It ended badly with me dashing from the room trying to make it to a bathroom before vomiting. From that day forward I vowed to take care of my feet and get pedicures on a regular basis from clean places.

I digress again. There are too many stories to tell about Honey. If I don't tire of typing to myself, I'm sure I'll hit on many more. The point I wanted to make today was that Honey was about my mother's age now when I was born. For all of her complaining, for the million times she said, "I'm blind and I can't see" to anyone she thought was in earshot, for all the hours I had to sit in front of her vanity and have my hair ironed into doodoo curls, I know that she was one of the most remarkable women I could have had in my life.

The endurance of that woman was incredible. She was strong, stubborn, and smart. There was no model back then for single moms. There was no child support or alimony. There was just her sheer will and determination. The things I learned from Honey could spin off into another blog altogether.

The point? My grandchild will not have these things to say about my mother. For all the praise I have for Honey, I think my mother is twice the woman with twice the smarts and twice the determination. I can only imagine what she could teach my children. And what stories will they tell if their family is gone before their memories start?

This is not the way I imagined it would be.

Honey lived to be 97. She did eventually really lose her sight and became quite dependent the last 5 years of her life. However, she also picked up and moved across the country at 92 years old. When my parents decided to move to California, Honey didn't bat an eye. She said, "When do we leave?" She made new friends, experienced new cultures, and loved to tell her stories to anyone who would sit and listen.

Honey and my mother didn't always get along so well. They loved each other dearly, but I think 30 plus years of caretaking to someone as negatively vocal as Honey could be took a toll on my mother. In the days before she died though, Honey told my mother that although she wanted to live to be 100, she was content to know that she had lived long enough to see my mother fulfill God's plan for her life. Isn't that what every child wants to hear? That their parent thinks they done good?

Honey gave that to my mom, and it meant the world to her. Momma has given that to me all along though, and it has made all the difference in my life. I'm grateful she didn't make me wait until the end to let me know that she is proud of me.

Start again tomorrow. This was something that my grandfather always said to me. He used to be the one I would call when I had a bad day. By the time I was done unloading my horrid tales, we would both be laughing because really, they were never that bad. I miss him.

I'm starting over. A week from Monday, I will marry the man of my dreams. It has taken time, pain, destruction, and rebuilding to get there, but we have almost made it.

In Montreat, Presbyterians fill the town. Not to mention, it is the most beautiful place on earth. It's the perfect place for a wedding. Ironically enough, the minister who will marry us has already done this for me once. I suppose you have to have a strange sense of humor, but it really is funny. I'm finally going to be married in the mountains by a stream and get to wear my Birkenstocks doing it. Life is good sometimes.

Start again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

I'm going to keep on trying. There is no reason why we shouldn't make the best of the lives we've been given.

My grandfather was my best friend. He would be the one I could call and spill all of my bad days. He would listen, softly chuckling when I got too melodramatic. Those calls were so cleansing for me. The crisis would immediately begin to fade when he would say,

"Good thing you get to start (again)." paraphrased.

It's hard to imagine myself without parents. They have been everything to appreciate. I thought my daughter would have the same kind of relationship with my father that I had with his. My father could be the same kind of grandfather that his father was. He has the wisdom and the kindness. He would so love to have a granddaughter who called him her best friend.

There are so many things that I want to give to my parents that only time would allow. Starting all over tomorrow won't give me that time though. It will only mean that another day has past, and we are another day closer to the cruel illnesses that will take my parents.

Right now I'm not looking forward to tomorrow anymore.me. Now that I'm finally somewhat of an adult and can actually spend time with them as friends, they have become suddenly old. It doesn't make any sense.

My grandfather's wisdom needed that generation gap to be true.

My grandparents are dead, which is not so sad since they were incredibly old when they died. Don't get me wrong, I still miss them. Grandmomma died at 86 in 1996 following a battle with Alzheimer’s. Honey (my other grandmother) died at 97 in 2003, and Granddaddy died at 93 later that year as well. They both died of plain old age. All three were a huge part of our lives, and I assumed that my children would feel the same way about my parents.

As I see it, we had moved into the phase where my parents were now going to be the grandparents and we would have another 30 years of travel, pictures, cards, phone calls, and everything I had with my grandparents. One problem, I don't even have any kids yet.

There are only granddogs from me. The best granddogs that ever lived, mind you, but still canine. The most recent one was even named after my grandfather, father, and brother (Senior, Junior, and the Third), since I had decided that I was doomed to be barren. Lucky for me, I was just doomed to be divorced and now have hope to be a mom with the most perfect man.

So she also says, "I want to live to see my next grandchildren."

I want that more than anything. That should have been on my list. I want my mother to live not just to see her next grandchildren, but to baptize them and watch them grow up even just a few years. I want them to know her and have memories of her.

This is not too much to ask.