It
sounds cliche to say that my gramma is my hero, but it's true. As a
child, I was not aware of all the details of her life before me. All I
knew was how her and my papa would wait extra long in line to buy my sister and
me the McDonald's mini Beanie Babies, and when we would push the couches
together for sleepovers, my gramma would sleep on the crack, and how she would always make me the perfect oatmeal and Rock N Rye ice cubes. My
gramma was the one who put Vaseline on my bum after a bout of diarrhea,
and the one who slathered mayonnaise on my sister's and my head when we got
lice that one time.
I
remember the first time I heard her mention a
past husband. I overheard her on the phone, and it confused me, but she didn't lie to me about it, she
just asked me not to say anything about it in front of my papa. Over
the years, I would learn so much about the trials and troubles she went
through before becoming my "gramma." Every new detail created a more
developed image of the amazing woman I had the privilege to call
gramma. What is most inspiring for me as a young woman, is how she was
still, always, the sweet "cookie lady" who went out of her way for
everyone in her life, whether she just met you or had known you for
years. Young people she worked with seemed to love their "Rosie" as
much as I love her.
As
a young girl, I remember waking up in the morning after our sleepovers,
as my gramma was getting ready for work. She sat in the kitchen, with a
handheld mirror, doing her make up under the florescent stove light. I
would watch her, the plastic kitchen clock ticking, until she would
catch me and tell me to go back to bed. The ticking of a clock still
transports me to that mobile home kitchen.
As
I got older, she would tell me about the young "foxes" she worked with and
how she told everyone all about me, to my embarrassment. She would
smile at, and approach, nearly anyone wherever we went, whether she knew
them or not, to my embarrassment. But that was who she was, friendly
and outgoing. And it was something she never lost. Even until a couple
days before her death, she was chatting with and getting to know the
women who took care or her and my papa. A couple weeks before she died,
she was still trying to give her Bingo money away to random children! She never lost
her spirit.
Once
my gramma started forgetting details of my life, and the appropriate
questions to ask me, she would revert to saying, "you're so
beautiful" and ask if I was "staying out of trouble." I would joke back
to her saying that I get my looks from her, and that, of course, I
was misbehaving. And even the last time I visited, she
told me she was proud of me.
I
miss her, but I think about such memories, and it comforts me. My
gramma was strong and loving and important, not just to her family, but
to nearly everyone she came in contact with. It made my heart swell to
hear so many stories about my gramma from the people who cared for her
in her last months.
And that is why she is my hero: because through all of the hardships and heartaches in her life, my gramma was still the most loving and wonderful person many people have ever known. Of that I am sure.
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