48 years ago, young Heather (that’s me) entered the world.
She had 13 grandparents.
You read that right, 13; a Great-Great Gran, sets of Greats and all of my Grandparents. I grew up knowing and loving all of these generations. And I have grown gradually losing these people. But in loving and losing my Grans, I can say they were loved deeply and lived good lives. How lucky are these 13?
At 48, I still have a Granny and a Gramps. It sounds odd at my age to talk about visiting my Grandparents; especially as I walk into assisted living with my wild head of white hair; complaining about hot-flashes.
Okay, the hot-flashes part is kind of a lie. I tend to quietly sweat and hope no one notices 🙂 Regardless, I know this connection is unique and so very special
This week my Granny lost her brother Harry. Harry was a great hugger, quick to laugh and tell a dirty joke about Dolly Parton and Queen Elizabeth.
He loved his little sis, my Granny.
I think at any age it’s hard to lose your big brother.
Granny is one of seven rowdy children growing up during the depression in Southern Indiana. Life had to be hard. Family was about survival.
As a child, watching this group of seven, I heard stories of eating what could be caught, the best way to prepare a squirrel stew and warnings to never smoke banana peels, not matter if your brother dared you.
This was a close group of seven.
Now my Granny is the last surviving of these seven. She could not travel out to Indiana so I thought I would take the trip in her steed and to pay respect to my dear Uncle.
It was a good trip surrounded by family. Family is good. Family can be flawed and flaky but at the end of the day, it is family who remember you before you were 48, who still think of you as 10 and remind you to call when you get to the airport because after all, you have not had your license for very long. Family is where you came from.
Yesterday we laid my uncle to rest. He has a plot by his parents; my Great Grans and next to his wife and daughter. The trees in Indiana were at their peak, speckling the fields of corn with yellow, orange and burgundy. A county road backs up to the cemetery and if you look out to the horizon, you can imagine that this land looks exactly as it did 91 years ago when Uncle Harry came into this world.
And how lucky is my Uncle? He died at 91. He lived a full, healthy life. He was loved and cherished until the end.
I hope to have an Uncle Harry life.
To end it all here where the wind sweeps through the corn; quiet and untouched, surrounded by family who has moved on…… may we all have an Uncle Harry life.