Bang the drum slowly

Gone now is the day and gone the sun

There is peace tonight all over Arlington

But the songs of my life will still be sung

By the light of the moon you hung

~Emmylou Harris

My grandma died.

Of course, most people live long enough to see their grandparents pass away, but you see… my grandmother – she was special. And our relationship – well, it was special, too. More special than anybody else ever’s relationship with their grandmother. Hmph.

I was lucky enough to grow up within a half hour drive of my grandparents, which meant I got to see them very often. She mothered me (including the yelling – she didn’t particularly care for me using all her rubber cement to make big balls of bouncy… umm… rubber cement), coddled me (including the coddling), taught me how to gather eggs, how to tell a ripe raspberry from those not ready to pick, and how to design a particularly scary spook alley scenario. Not particularly difficult skills – and not skills I have an opportunity to utilize on a daily or yearly or decadely basis – but she took time to explain things, which, when you’re a child, means the world.

As children and teenagers, we enjoyed many trips to Yellowstone with my grandparents. My grandmother would always see that my hair was combed (she wouldn’t have me wandering about like a “ragchild,” camping nor not). They played Peter, Paul, and Mary while taking us to see their favorite sites, told us stories around the campfire, taught us to catch, prepare, and cook trout, and took us for canoe rides at sunset.

When I was in college, I often (very often… I was poor) dropped by to see my grandparents around lunch time. My grandmother invariably was “just about to make lunch” and invariably made “far too much for your grandfather and I to eat before it spoils,” and I was therefore the lucky recipient of homemade wheat bread, homemade casseroles and stews, home-canned jams and jellies, and – my favorite – Swedish shrimp sandwiches. My grandparents and I would chat over lunch about my courses, my boyfriends, my grades… the regular fare. I would often stay and study for a couple hours by their fireplace, during which time, my grandmother would bring me various snacks – bread just out of the oven, Pepperidge Farm cookies (they never taste the same when I buy them), or oatmeal cookies made with applesauce (actually, I love them).

A few weeks ago, my grandmother called me. We chatted about the upcoming baby, morning sickness, getting kicked, and about being a mother. She said if I made sure to love the baby to pieces, everything else would work out. She also jokingly asked me to remind Tim that she was counting on him to find a cure for congestive heart failure, because she wasn’t ready to leave.

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Well, I suppose she got ready, but I didn’t. Maybe I was in denial, but I didn’t expect her to go so soon. I expected her to be on the front row at my wedding (maybe she was, but I like to think she was running through a meadow of wildflowers), and… I miss her. I’m glad she’s not in pain, but I would rather she be pain-free here with us. I’m sad. I find myself shedding tears at random moments – doing the dishes, pouring a gel, trying to put my socks on.

And what’s not to miss? She was a remarkable woman. She raised ten children, helped run a farm, earned both bachelor’s and master’s degree in education (AFTER giving birth to ten children), worked full time helping disadvantaged children get up to speed in school, served her church and community, and made her home a haven for her children and 50-plus grandchildren. When I was at the funeral, I was somewhat astonished to see that all my cousins and siblings looked every bit as sad as I felt. Even though her life was supersaturated, she somehow took the time to make every one of us feel as though our relationship with her was more special than anybody else ever’s relationship with their grandmother. She had that much love in her heart.