Susan Writes

Ann Ray was born to be a grandmother and Grandmother was the name she chose when she was 47 years old and her first grandchild, my daughter, was born.  For the next 45 years, until her death last week, Husband’s mother lived and loved as Grandmother.  Her last fifteen years, she cherished being a great-grandmother and she smiled biggest when she hugged one of her great-grands.

            When I asked many years ago why she chose to be called Grandmother, because there are so many other name choices, she said, “Grandmother is the name on all the cards.”  Greeting cards were treasures.  She kept them close on the table beside the couch, displayed them on the fireplace mantle, and would say, “Did you see the cards I got?”

            Sending cards gave her even greater joy than receiving.  She knew the ages and interests of all twelve of her great-grands so she chose the perfect card for each.  When she said to me, “Look at this card I got for Samuel,” I knew she’d searched for a card with a picture of a boy and a basketball.  That’s how Grandmother loved. 

            She loved by doing.  Like making an extra recipe of strawberry fluff for family Christmas dinner so my daughter could take it home.  Daughter loved that fluff of Jello, Cool Whip, and crushed strawberries when she was young so even when she was the mother of five, Grandmother made extra.  Husband once said that he remembered eating salmon patties when he was a child so the next time there was a holiday family gathering, Grandmother served fried salmon patties along with the traditional turkey and ham.

            All who loved her have gifts that Grandmother chose or made just for us.  I treasure my cross-stitch sampler.  It’s black with pastel flowers and states: 1983, Susan Ray, Her Sampler.  We in-laws were hers just as her four children who she had diapered and burped.

            Two weeks ago, while Grandmother and I sat rocking on her carport, she said, “Susan, I didn’t think I’d ever be like this.  Not able to get up and do what I want.”  She paused, looking at the sky. “But I guess I’m doing pretty good.  I live by myself.  I can get dressed and talk to people on the phone.” 

            A widow for eleven years, Grandmother lived alone in the home where she and Grandfather raised their four children.  Until a few months ago, she drove to the grocery store and to her hairdresser’s shop every Thursday and to church on Sunday mornings. 

            She was determined to not be, in her words, ‘a problem to anybody.’  Even in death, she wasn’t. When she didn’t answer her phone, her daughter went to her home and found Grandmother sitting in her favorite corner of her couch and holding a TV remote, her head resting on her chest.  That afternoon she appeared to have fallen asleep and taken her last breath.              Grandmother blessed with her love, her gifts, her cards, and she chose the perfect name. We all, sometimes even her children, called her Grandmother.

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