Don't forget to remember, part 5

Irene Eva Laro was my mother’s mother and I called her Grammy.  She was the last living of my grandparents, reaching 89 long years…a great stride for such a petite woman.  The funny thing about my grandparents is they all made such an impact on my life, but I didn’t really meet them until they were in their fifties, and able to have a mutual relationship until they were into their sixties.  They had lived a full life before I came along.  And this was true for Grammy Osgood in particular.  There was a back story that she kept deep inside.  For some, what you see is what they are.  For her, there was so much more that didn’t reach the surface.  I can only write of my experience with her and it was wonderful.  Imagine you are staying at a bed and breakfast nestled near the mountains, rivers, and lakes of New Hampshire, in a tiny village filled with historic homes and scenic roads.  Your room houses a queen bed with an oak headboard, matching the grains and finish of the vintage dresser.  You pull down your bedcovers and the smell of freshly pressed linens and clean air come from your sheets.  It is peaceful here.  After a restful sleep you awake to percolated coffee, with a small woman standing at the stove, dressed in her apron, poking and turning bacon in the cast iron skillet, getting it ready to serve with toasted homemade bread, jam, and potatoes from the garden…and eggs how you like them.  There will be homemade pie for dessert, at breakfast!  That’s a sampling of what it was like to stay at Grammy’s…it was quiet, peaceful, and delicious.  Like Grampy, she was not one for conversation, but she enjoyed my company.   After her shift at the split-ball bearing plant…she must have quit at nine, because she would return and I’d already be in my jammies as a young girl.  She would make popped corn on the stove and smother it in butter, pour herself a brandy and me a homemade root beer from her cellar and we’d watch a show…maybe “Hee-Haw” or a western…I don’t remember, I just remember loving staying up late and having a snack with her.  And I know she loved having me there.  When it was time for bed, she’d do the usual encouragements…”brush your teeth and say your prayers.”  After I was done, I peeked into her room and she would be kneeling beside her bed, deep in prayer.  Then she’d come tuck me in.  I felt like she had a direct line to God and I wanted that, too.  My parents didn’t take me to church when I was real young, but Grammy did.  Church was a place where we whispered, and walked quietly, and revered the space.  Years later, my family and I attended churches labeled “charismatic” or “Pentecostal”…and I struggled with all the drama of it.  I longed for the reverence that Grammy had for this time set aside with God.    She was like that with everything she did, it was all sacred.  She made her pies with such intention and feeling, she set peas in little porcelain or china bowls and placed them just to the left of the main plate…dinner time was sacred and the table was set beautifully.  The beds were made lovingly with sheets that had dried on the line.   And she loved holding babies, the precious new lives welcomed into the family.  And she lived longer, so held more than the others, as her tribe grew into grands and great-grands, and I believe even great-greats!  I remember you, Grammy, and love you so much.  Every Sunday morning, I make a special breakfast, and use your turning fork, my precious inheritance.  You have shared with me the incredible gift of hospitality, and the importance of walking intentionally and quietly with God.  Thank you.