For Grandma

It’s been one year without you.

In certain tribes they say that when an elder dies, a library is lost with them. We have lost our library –
our librarian – our matriarchal storyteller – our mother, our grandmother, our great and great great
grandmother. It is not surprising that grandma volunteered for the library. Or libary – as she would say–it’s library, grandma, not libary.

She was an archivist. Taking and collecting thousands of photos, clipping newspaper articles, keeping the record of our lives for us and presenting it to us in birthday cards and in carefully crafted scrapbooks with memories long lost if not for her.

But it was her mind that was the true archive – keeping an inexplicable transcript of all the details of all the days of her life — that she shared with us even as we were putting our coats on and trying to walk out the door after a visit we thought would be an hour that turned into two.

I could think of no better way than to honor grandma than through stories and memories. My favorite
stories are the ones about her and grandpa. Like how she was best friends with Aunt Lucy -who she
called Lou – and one day Lou asked as they were walking home, if you could date anyone, who would it
be, and grandma said Hoover. She didn’t know why she said it – she didn’t even know him that well
because he was a senior and she was a freshman. But Aunt Lucy went straight home and told him that
Mollie Faye Robins wanted to date him and what did he do, he immediately broke it off with a girl he
was dating named Delores and took grandma on a few dates and that was that. I mean, how could
grandpa resist Ms. Strawberry – whose favorite activity, allegedly per the local newspaper, was
swimming. Swimming? The person who told us she would not put her head under the water because
she was afraid of drowning.

When I told grandma that Jake and I were getting married at a court house, she told me that there was
another couple who had gotten married at the courthouse – her and grandpa. On the day they set off to
the court house, grandpa’s truck got stuck in the mud, so her dad grandpa Robins had to pull it out with horses. Grandpa had given her a ring, but she didn’t have one for him so her dad gave her $50 – which was a lot of money back then – to get one. But she and grandpa were practical, and spent the money instead on other necessities. Grandpa didn’t end up getting a ring until 25 years later – and when he died, she didn’t want him buried with it but wore it on a chain around her neck to keep him close.

Grandma’s stories were factual – not embellished or emotional – but like she was watching a movie in
her mind with every detail captured. It was not so much through her words that she showed us how
much she loved us all, but through her actions: through cooking – the smell of fried chicken and cornbread; I can see her with her finger in the thanksgiving dressing tasting it for more sage or salt; in
the chocolate pies she made just for Uncle Danny or the chicken n dumplings she made for us; teaching Sunday school and visiting nursing homes; every birthday present; sports game; graduation attended. Breaking out the medical book to diagnose our ailments better than any doctor.

She represented safety and love through every single act and the house an extension of that safety.
Vanilla wafers and peanut butter in the cabinet, oreos in the pantry, the shortest, squattiest Christmas
trees, hiding among the boxes and ironing board, and bowling balls in the back closet, partial dentures in a cup, the twisted phone cord from the hall to the kitchen, the chime of the grandfather clock; the
pullout sofa, the perfume bottles and trinkets in the living room table, easter eggs in window wells and
gutters, climbing the gumball tree, exploring the cemetery, the smell of coffee. The out there yonder
and well, hello there Amber as I walked in the door.

Our librarian has left us, but she remains within us – through her stories, the memories we shared, the
thousands of photos she maintained for us, in the acts of love we share together, and through our
togetherness. (And genetically for me in my purpling calloused feet – I hope I’m the only one).

Grandma embodied what it meant to love and act out her faith through service and we get to honor her memory and her legacy through the acts of selflessness we do for each other and for those in our communities.

We may not have inherited grandma’s remarkable memory, we all have her spirit within us to share
often and without reservation. We get to continue her story and what a gift that is.