My Grandma

I've just returned from saying goodbye for the last time to my sweet grandmother. I've been half expecting 'the call' for a couple of years now, but nothing prepares you for the moment you hear those words. Though I'd been missing 'her' for a few years, the hours after hearing of her passing were flooded with memories, fresh as if they'd just happened. And by 'her', I mean the Grandma I knew before age, and the effects of it had gripped her mind and memory and physical capabilities.

I want to take a couple of moments to share my grandmother with you.

Born as Isabel Alexandra MacQueen MacPherson; she garnered the nickname Queenie. I always thought it was a bit strange (as a child and never really knowing why she was called that) but in reality, she lived up quite nicely to the moniker. She was also know as Grandma is many, many other people who had no blood relation. She was everyones Grandma.

I find it hard to talk about Gram (I shortened her name to Gram when I was a teenager for no other reason to be different. Or was it lazy? I don't quite remember) with out talking about her husband. My amazing grandfather - but don't get me started on him, I'll be here all day. And this post is about her so I'll carry on as planned.

Growing up across the field from my grandparents had its perks. We could see them drive up the road, and sometimes would practically race them into the house in a frantic run from our place to theirs just for the chance to hang out and probably to snag a freshly baked roll or slice of bread with molasses. But really, mostly just to be with them.

Gram was a school teacher in her day so I had a math tutor (bless her heart) at my fingertips. I remember the plastic cover over the gorgeous lace tablecloth on the dining room table as she patiently went through the 'new math' with me. Pretty sure we didn't know about ADD then, but I likely had it and drove her nuts but you'd never have known it. The lace underneath was apparently distracting and I would trace it with the eraser tip of my pencil (??). Can you even imagine how annoying that would be??

Her hands. Very distinctive, and hard working. Those hands have so much meaning and memories for me. They were the hands that kneaded bread regularly; they were the hands that wiped my tears, and Amway-sprayed my numerous cuts and scraps from biking (or falling from running and tripping over my too-big-for-my-body feet- as running was my main mode of transportation). They were the hands that hugged me constantly and brushed my hair and tucked me in at night. They were the hands that I held when I sat next to her in church or when I just wanted to be in her presence. The hands that held so many of her own children, her childrens children with unbridled love and full blown affection.

She loved very simple things in life; like her lilac tree and pussy willows. The lilac tree bloomed every year outside her kitchen window and with, oh, at least 12 grandchildren around in the summer each bringing her flowers from it, the same amount of fuss was made over every grubby little fistful that was passed to her with proud smiles.

I don't remember Grams favorite color, or her favorite meal, or her favorite Bible story. But I also don't remember her ever raising her voice at me (there were countless situations that warranted it). I don't even remember her being visible annoyed at me (see above comment). She had a gentle soul and didn't particularly move quickly, which brought a sense of peace to her surroundings. She'd stop what she was doing no matter how many times I'd come bursting through the door and tend to me. Whether it was 'exciting' news from school, Mark and Stephen chasing me with a snake, or dropping by on the ski-doo to ask if she'd seen the cool jump I did outside her kitchen window, she made sure I felt welcome and loved. (and gently told me to be careful on the snowmobile and questioned my wisdom in performing such acts- always - and as she should have)

Out of all the charactoristics that tend to define who my Grandmother was; the most obvious, no thats not the right word - the most telling, was her fairness to her grandchildren. She had twenty two grandchildren - and we all think we were her favorite! We were all treated equally and over the top with attention.

At the funeral, her grandsons were the pallbearers and sat at the front of the church against the wall. And when they stood to sing, two thoughts struck me: The first being how incredibly proud she would've been to have seen her boys looking so handsome, and the second how she would've basked in their strong, beautiful voices.

I wouldn't wish her back for a second, she's hanging out with Grandpa right now and quite frankly, I'm a little jealous. (he's one of my favorite human beings) but I did wish that for just a glimpse she could've joined us.

I could go on and on, really. But I'll stop with this 'tip of the iceburg' post and hope you've gotten a small peek into the life 22 of us were lucky enough to live. And if you have memories of your own, I'd love to hear so leave them in the comment section.

xo cheers, LeeLeeMac

As a side note: I feel very lucky in that I live in Calgary where her mini-me sister lives and who I see regularly. I've been here for over two years and while it was super weird at first to see someone who looked and acted so much like my grandmother, now I find it almost comforting. Its like I have an extention with Grandma, and for that I am grateful.