Four years ago today, my best friend, Grandma Millie, went to be with Jesus. She is the one who ultimately convinced me to pursue my dream of becoming a writer. The following is a narrative composition I wrote during my senior year of high school for my college dual-enrollment English class. My hope is that, in posting this today, I will honor Grandma Millie and bring blessings to those who, like me, have a guardian angel smiling down on them.
I never asked anyone why Grandma Millie could not walk. In my early days, childish curiosity often caused me to ponder this, but I accepted that everyone has unavoidable differences. Her physical disability clearly presented its irrelevance from her personality. In later years, I admired her positivity and determination to overcome society’s assumptions. When I was old enough to understand, I learned that she had been born with a virus called polio, which left her legs permanently paralyzed.
Before my seventh birthday, my parents, my sister, and I lived in a little house in Clearwater, Florida, not far from where Grandma Millie lived. When my parents announced that we would be going to her house, I would jump up and down like the jack-in-the-box I often played with, clapping my hands with joy. Upon arriving, I would crawl under the fluffy blankets on Grandma’s big bed as she read stories of princesses and princes and the three bears from books that I longed to delve into. I loved when Grandma’s bedtime stories consisted of real events from her life, which painted vivid pictures of past decades behind my eyelids. At night, Grandma would bring out bags of white cheddar popcorn and bottles of coca cola, the anticipated perks of parties in Grandma’s room. Later, accompanied by the soothing soundtrack of her voice, I would fall into dreams pervaded by love and contentment.
My dad found a new job in Virginia when I was seven, so he travelled there to look for a house. Because of this, my mom, sister, and I moved into Grandma Millie’s cozy house near the beach. Saddened though I felt to leave my old home, the prospect of moving in with Grandma excited me. As I became accustomed to my new residence, I quickly fell into a fresh daily routine. Every day after school, the bus dropped me off at the end of the driveway of my grandma’s house. A screech of brakes as well as the compressed hiss of the doors opening told me the bus had arrived at Grandma Millie’s house. I leapt down the stairs, dashed hurriedly across the driveway, and enthusiastically greeted my grandma. She always sat in her wheelchair in the driveway, basking in the sun, patiently awaiting my arrival.
“Hello there, Jenny,” she would say as I approached. “How was your day today?”
“Good,” I would reply, smiling widely. “I learned a lot.”
We would then venture inside to the family room, where we exchanged stories about our respective days. At these times, it always felt as if we were both eager children, ready for an audience who would understand and appreciate our stories. I would walk over to the wooden cabinet and retrieve our mancala game, dropping the marbles with loud thunks into their proper holes on the board. Half an hour would turn into an hour, then an hour into an hour and a half as we both examined the board, briskly calculating strategies that would thwart the other’s attempts at victory. Soon, though, I would have to fold up the board, reluctantly switching gears to my homework, which Grandma Millie often offered to assist me with. Afterwards, we would venture to the kitchen to prepare a snack. Sometimes, my grandma pulled out my Care Bears Party Cookbook, so we could both read along while attempting a new recipe.
One Friday afternoon, we decided to make peanut butter milkshakes. Slowly, I read the instructions aloud, my brows creasing in concentration. When I stumbled across a word I couldn’t pronounce, Grandma Millie would ask me to spell it out for her. When all of the ingredients had been assembled and the glasses full of our concoction were set before us, we simultaneously lifted our cups, sipping with caution. Immediately, my cup slammed back on the countertop as I coughed and spat. Grandma Millie’s actions mirrored mine as she screwed up her face into an expression of profound disgust. We looked at each other for several seconds, then burst out laughing.
“Well, this is really gross,” Grandma said, still chortling.
“Yeah! We’re never making these again.” I smiled, happy despite the fact that our latest cooking experience had failed.
With the arrival of August came our moving day to Virginia. Naturally, I felt a pang of loss at leaving Florida, but I viewed the experiences to come as events in an entirely new chapter of our lives. To my delight, Grandma Millie decided to move to Virginia with us; she took up residence in the first-floor bedroom of our new house. Our house in Virginia is much bigger than either house I’ve lived in previously, which took some time getting used to. I remember times when I would run up and down the stairs, delighted, while my grandma sat at her desk, looking over to smile and laugh every now and then.
Years passed by almost without notice. Upon arriving home from school, I would often find Grandma Millie cruising around in her wheelchair, humming as she watered her treasured plants from an old milk carton she kept under the sink.
“Always make sure the water’s just right,” she would tell me. “Not too hot, not too cold.”
I would smile and laugh at that, reminded of the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
Every afternoon, my grandma and I would play mancala or cards on the same big table we used in Florida. We would rip open bags of cheetos and her favorite candy, orange slices, while sipping sodas together as sunlight streamed in through the skylights. Sometimes, I would visit the library and check out Little House on the Prairie books for Grandma to read to me. We not only enjoyed the book series, but we avidly watched the television series as well. When three o’clock rolled around, we would both lay back in Grandma Millie’s bed to learn about the latest adventures and mishaps of the Ingalls family. For two hours, both of us–the girl and the woman–became part of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s world. We found strong kinship with Mary, Laura’s older sister, who became blind as a young woman. The challenges she faced reminded me of stories Grandma Millie often told me about her experiences in the “old days”. I, being no older than twelve at the time, found solace in knowing that other people experienced and overcame challenges every day. Grandma and Mary both had disabilities. And yet, neither woman let her challenges control her abilities. As young as I was, I recognized the value of perseverance; I wanted to be like them.
Even though every day spent with Grandma Millie was special, our holiday traditions will be fixed in my mind forever. Every year at Christmastime, my grandma and I would enter the kitchen with purpose. My Care Bears Party Cookbook, old and worn around the edges by then, still maintained its special place amongst Grandma’s cookbooks. Care-a-lot Candy, the one good recipe in the book, had become a family favorite over the years, despite my reluctance at trying the recipe at first. (Our unpleasant experience with the peanut butter milkshakes still remained fresh in my mind.) Making Care-a-Lot Candy with me gave Grandma Millie the perfect opportunity to pass on her considerable cooking expertise. Sinking my teeth into the cold, sugary treat Grandma and I had created filled my heart with joy. Needless to say, the Care-a-Lot Candy supply in our refrigerator steadily dwindled down to nothing in a few days’ time.
When I was in my first year of high school, my grandma could no longer read books with ease. Being an avid reader myself, as well as having experienced difficulty acquiring books I could read, I empathized with her. After I finished with my homework, or on lazy weekends when nothing was required of me, I would take a book from my shelf and read to her. Even though she often fell asleep as I talked, backtracking was no problem, as long as it meant she could still participate in the magical world of literature. I began writing stories and poems of my own, so Grandma Millie eagerly took on the role of my “literary cheerleader.” She encouraged me to enter my poem “The Chestnut Tree” into the Richmond Area Reading Council’s poetry contest in 2009. Although I felt skeptical about my chances of winning, I submitted the poem. When I got word that I would be recognized for my work, Grandma gave me a warm hug and told me I made her proud. She attended the awards ceremony with the rest of my family, her wide smile never leaving her face.
Later that year, Grandma Millie’s health declined. After a lengthy hospital stay, she returned home to recuperate. After school every day, I would go into her room quietly, insuring that my presence wouldn’t awaken her from her much-needed rest. She still asked me about my day, even though she felt terrible. I kept her spirits up as best I could by telling her funny stories and jokes. One day, I brought her a package of orange slices that my mom and I had picked up from the store.
“Bless your heart,” she said, taking the candy. It’s always the simple moments that overcome me with bittersweet love. And at that moment, I realized the most beautiful kind of love is the kind you can’t explain or define.
Walking out of the room, I headed to the kitchen, where I stooped down to the cabinet below the sink. I slowly removed the old, dented milk carton, quietly filling it with luke-warm water, as Grandma had taught me. I watered her plants that day without being asked.
After awhile, she recovered and returned to a semi-normal routine. However, she never regained the complete independence she once had.
I still remember clearly the last Christmas I spent with my grandma. In my mind, I see her sitting in her wheelchair, as close to the fire as possible. I can still hear her wavering voice singing along to Josh Groban’s Christmas CD as it played softly from the old stereo. I remember the companionship as my entire family gathered around the Christmas tree to exchange gifts. Our joy was magical electricity in the room, and I never wanted it to fade. Most of all, though, I remember the last time Grandma Millie and I made Care-A-Lot Candy together.
On November 11, 2010, Grandma Millie checked back into the hospital. This time, the doctors said she had a disease with no cure. After my dad picked me up from school, we would drive to the hospital, ascending to the third floor. Family members began arriving to visit with her. I felt as though I was living in a dream. “This can’t be happening,” I thought. “She’s so strong. She’ll make it through.” At 4 AM on December 6, 2010, we received the call. She was gone.
The plane trip to Florida for the funeral service passed in a blur of tears and sadness for me. When the day arrived, I stepped forward amidst a backdrop of vibrantly-colored flowers to speak about Grandma Millie. Words failed me; all I could think was that if she were there, she would lean forward to sniff the flowers, exhaling in satisfaction at their fragrance. I heard her voice in my mind, praising my cooking efforts and calling me her little “Boobam”. Frozen, I knew that nothing I could say would convey how amazing, caring, and inspiring my grandma had been. I dropped a single piece of paper onto the podium with shaking hands and began to read.
“The tree still stands where it always has…”
As I recited her favorite poem, one I had written, my voice shook with emotion. If it hadn’t been for Grandma Millie, I would never have entered “The Chestnut Tree” into that contest. If it hadn’t been for Grandma Millie, I wouldn’t have known my writing potential. The significance of the poem wasn’t lost on me; as I read it, I discovered an entirely new meaning, one beyond what I had wanted to convey when I’d written it. I could not disguise the tears flowing freely down my cheeks as I returned to my seat and hugged my parents.
Out of all of her grandchildren, I am the one who had the opportunity to spend the most time with Grandma Millie. I will treasure the experiences she and I shared, as well as the lessons we taught each other, for as long as I live. My grandma had volunteered for a number of years for the American Cancer Society, which awarded her for her dedication, raised three children, and contributed to the beauty of the community by spending hours nurturing plants with her garden club. On top of this, she dealt with the doubts of others, proving time and again, with her head held high, that she could do anything others could do, and more.
Now, almost eleven months since Grandma Millie passed away, my house feels empty. When I come home from school, she’s not there to hear my stories. Most of all, my heart breaks when I think that I must make Care-a-Lot Candy by myself this holiday season. I will never stop missing my best friend, Grandma Millie, who showed me that even a failed attempt at making peanut butter milkshakes can be both a learning experience and a memory that will be treasured forever.
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© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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