With Love from Your Favorite Granddaughter

My aunt called me about five months ago to tell me that my grandmother (her mom) was entering her last illness. She had just turned 95, and her body was telling her it was time to be done. I actually cried about it after we talked, not because my grandmother, who had lived a long life, was dying, but because I felt like a little girl at that moment, not ready to lose my last living grandparent.

I wrote Grandma a letter that I sent to my aunt, who printed it for Grandma to read. I poured out my heart to her because there was so much I wished I had said but hadn’t, and I knew she needed to know. My aunt later told me that Grandma seemed to like what I had written because she had read it three or four times. It is very true what I had feared:  I regret that I didn’t go see her much in the last 20 years.

Grandma passed away on Monday. My aunt told me that it was peaceful and that about 30 minutes after hearing my aunt tell her that it was okay to let go, that everything would be fine here, Grandma was gone. She had asked Grandma to give Grandpa and my dad a hug for her. For me too, Grandma!

It has been my privilege in the last few years to have spent small bits of time with Grandma and my aunt and uncle. The realization that I was loved by these people, because I had truly forgotten what that was like, warmed my soul. I needed more of that, but it was not to be. At least not with Grandma.

I tell everyone that I want to be like my grandmother when (if) I grow up. Until the last few months of her life, Grandma was mostly lucid and aware. She was sharp as a tack and had a great relationship with both her daughter and her son-in-law. It was heartwarming to see them together. I teased her that I was still scared of her but that I was sure I could outrun her with that walker!

Grandma continued to work with her hands, likely very frustrated by how age slowed her down, but the works of art she created are wonderful. I have a beautiful lap blanket she crocheted for me, and it contains my favorite colors. I don’t think I’d even told her!

Because of family issues, I didn’t see my grandparents from 8^th graduation until high school graduation, when I drove up to meet them at the airport when they had just finished a cruise. It was a big surprise, and it was absolutely the right thing to do. I was so sorry that I had missed out on the previous four years.

My memories begin with toddling around in my grandparents’ backyard, naked as can be, playing with the hose. I have pictures of that day, but I actually remember experiencing it. I was fortunate enough to see them often as I was growing up (until 8^th grade), including a full month with them, traveling the western states in 1970. It was obvious there was a disconnect in their relationship with my parents, but I knew they loved me and liked to have me around.

When my oldest daughter was a baby, we used to go up and stay in Fort Bragg with them, without my parents or siblings. I loved it there. Both of them were so hard working, and they always treated me as if I was something special. Since I was living in an abusive marriage at the time, their attitude and behavior towards me was like cold water to a thirsty person.

The struggle was real in my own life. It became harder and harder for me to think enough of myself to reach out to the people who loved me. It was all I could do to keep waking up in the mornings. I was a mess. Then I divorced, and the struggle was still real, but it had changed. When I remarried, we drove to the coast for our honeymoon weekend, and my new husband suggested we drive up to see my grandparents before we headed back home.

This get together is one of my favorite memories. We both remember vividly my short grandma looking up at my tall husband and putting the fear of, well, HER in him if he ever dared to hurt me. He has taken that threat very seriously over the past 19 years. But here were two people who loved me making sure that they understood one another, and a bond was formed.

The struggle intensified as we discovered how difficult it was to raise a family of kids with strong personalities, many of whom had issues that we hadn’t yet addressed. It wasn’t until about ten years after my father (their son) died that I was able to get back in touch (though there was frequent communication with my aunt). Kristi and I had the chance to spend four days in their home, and it was so much fun. I will always cherish that.

I learned that Grandma had mellowed with age. I learned that what remained in her was love for her family members. She missed so many people who were gone, especially Grandpa. She was continuing to lose family members, and eventually only she and one of her stepsisters remained. Now her stepsister is the sole surviving member of their family. I should mention that I use the term “step” only for genealogical reasons; the family was just a big group of people. I remember Grandma taking care of her mother in her later years; it wasn’t actually her birth mother but the mother who raised her for much of her life.

Most of the time I knew her, Grandma was one of the most industrious people I had ever known. She was a wonder, that’s for sure! Her garden up in Fort Bragg was legendary. I wish I had gotten even a tiny bit of her green thumb.

Grandma wasn’t big on religion, but other than that, it was no big thing. It didn’t enter into our relationship at all. She didn’t love me because of or in spite of my faith, but my faith was irrelevant to her love for me. As she grew older, it was clear that she was looking forward to seeing her loved ones again. I had a sense that, while she wasn't part of an organized religion, she had faith in God.

Grandma’s aging body prevented her from being much of a traveler in her later years. Some of us, her grandchildren, did make an effort to see her, though others were better than I. I sincerely wish I had reached out more and gone out of my own way to make sure I could visit with her. I honestly will regret that the rest of my life, and I fully expect her to be waiting for me, arms crossed, foot tapping, to give me a scolding when I get to the other side of the veil. Bring it, Grandma! I not only deserve it, but I look forward to it.

Margaret Clyista Earl Osborn was born December 16, 1920. She married her school sweetheart, Roy Conrad Osborn, and they had four children, one of whom died at birth. Her childhood had been traumatic, although I am not even sure she realizes. It would definitely have shaped who she was in her life. She was an awesome grandmother. She took great care of her husband and then mourned him for the last 14 years. She suffered not only the loss of her infant daughter but the unexpected death of her oldest son when he was only 59 years of age. As I said, she had lost most of her siblings, nine of the ten.

I cannot express how much I appreciate Aunt Cheryl, who cared for Grandma (and Grandpa before he died) for decades, especially in the past decade or so. The bond between them was great. Caring for somebody can be taxing, and I know there were burdens. I believe Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Floyd have a blessing waiting for them in heaven because of their efforts on Grandma’s behalf.