My Heart is Broken

Heather:

Back story:  I grew upon a dirt road in rural Southeastern Ohio.  My paternal great-grandmother, Nanny, and her friend, Pauline, lived next door (maybe 100 yards away).  My paternal grandparents, Gran and Pap, lived next door to her.  There weren't many kids my age in the area and Courtney wasn't born until I was seven years old. My playmates were my family and our playground was the 70 acre farm on which the three homes were situated.  Gran and I were great pals from the beginning, or that's the way she told it.  I can tell you that there aren't many memories that don't include her in some way.

The Present:  Gran passed away in the very early hours of May 12.  She was at home and surrounded by her family.  She died as she had lived: on her own terms.

Gran was born on June 6, 1930.  The stories she told were populated by colorful characters that I would have thought fictional if her account of them had not been verified by outside sources.  She taught me how to make lye soap (much to Mom's dismay), how to make a pie crust, and how to love.  Yes, we fought.  We disagreed over politics and how to best wash a car.  She thought I stayed up too late and slept in too late.  In my defense, she went to bed around 8 p.m. (usually after a rousing game of Jeopardy!) and got up somewhere around 5 a.m.  A habit formed in the early years of raising a family and running a farm.

Gran married Pap when she was 16 years old.  She had three children by the time she was 22.  She didn't get her driver's license until she was 29.  Perhaps that is why she was loath to admit that driving had become something she could no longer do.  She told me many times that she wanted her epitaph to be, "She did while she could.  When she couldn't, she died."  It seems fitting that that was the last line of her obituary.

This is the first I've written since her death.  I've tried.  There are so many things I want to write down before they become blurry footnotes of memory, but it has felt wrong.  I try to tell my story to the best of my ability--it seems wrong right now to try to tell her story.  One day I will.  Until then, I will get up every morning and try to attack my day like Gran did--a list of chores sprinkled with breaks to sit on the porch and take in the scene before me.