98 years ago a tiny, premature baby was taken home by a nurse so she wouldn’t have to die in the hospital.
That little baby became the yardstick against which, a small army of grandchildren measured their youth. I’m almost as tall as Little Gram, I’m as tall as Little Gram, and finally, I’m bigger than Little Gram.
I remember baths in the yard in a steel wash tub, warsh tub. I remember a sand box under the bathroom window. I remember a red toothbrush with my name printed on a piece of white tape on it. The bird room; afternoon naps in the front bedroom; crab apples; the old outhouse; pop bottles; evening campfires in the yard; homemade playdough at the kitchen table; Sunday hymns; how angry Grandpa got when Grandma let me wear her dentures and how she laughed; learning to ride a bike at age 60; her leaping into a glider at 78; her getting angry when us kids couldn’t keep up with her when she was shopping; and pancakes. I will always remember pancakes.
I will always remember the woman who made me feel like I was her favorite, even when the room was full of my brothers and my cousins. She made each of us her favorite. That is how big her heart was; how pure her love was.
I know Gram wasn’t perfect, she was human, but in the eye of my heart she was perfect: she was the perfect Grandma for me.
I remember her character, her spirit, her love for the Lord. I hope that one day I can truly measure up to this small angel who blessed our life. Little Gram takes up a very big place in my heart.
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