Remembering my Grandma Phyllis
I hesitated to post this for a while. On my social pages, I tend to write short, meaningless captions. Even though I'm a writer, I never liked to write “stories” on a social post.
But in an effort to remain honest and share more of myself, I decided to post this because writing is therapeutic for me and I felt like I should share some of the things I write.
These words were weighing on me so I pieced them together and shared them on Instagram…
Every time I see this gazebo, I can hear and smell the memories made there 20 years ago. My grandpa posted up on the bench with a genny in his hand would be talking with my uncles -- cigarette in theirs.
A pile of old wood and scraps that had been accumulated since the last bonfire would be fully engulfed. Sticks with hotdogs and marshmallows are held by my mom and aunts standing around it.
The kids (myself included) play tag, hide and seek in the woods, catch worms and go fishing in the pond, swim in the pond, catch tadpoles and then watch fireworks set off by an uncle.
A couple of weeks ago, we lost my grandma.
I remember her driving the four-wheeler up and down the lawn, from the house to the pond, in order to keep the parties going.
I remember her being so loud that you could hear her call for her dog -- "Minny ha-ha!" -- from her front porch even though we lived about a half-mile away.
I remember playing many nights of euchre at the kitchen table and her yelling and laughing.
During hunting season she was out in the woods with the guys even as she got older.
She was the center of this crazy family -- and she was loud, spunky, and tough. She lost three of her children when she was living -- three! It takes a special type of strength to endure that.
Revisiting the gazebo last week (now overgrown with weeds and the floor fallen in) hit me with a wave of emotions. It had all faded so slowly, that I didn't even get to say goodbye.
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