My grandma was born when Woodrow Wilson was the president.
My grandmother made the best pulled pork barbecue in the world.
My grandmother listened to me sing a silly billboard song when I was ten and she was drying my long hair with a towel.
My grandma bought me the toys I wanted for a childhood birthday when she really took me shopping for clothes.
My grandmother was a Cubs fan, but thought Peyton Manning was a showoff.
My grandmother was Rosie the Riveter during World War II.
My grandmother made dozens and dozens of quilts, all by hand (machine quilting was “cheating”).
My grandma let me go home the first time I tried to stay over at her house and cried; she laughed the second time when I couldn’t even be bothered to say goodbye to my parents.
My grandmother lived through the Great Depression, World War II, the Cold War, the first moon landing, and September 11.
My grandmother had her hair “done” every week and took pride in her appearance.
My grandmother played euchre like a fiend.
My grandma thought I could do anything.
My grandmother had four children, eight grandchildren, four great-grandchildren, and one great-great grandchild.
My grandmother was feisty, opinionated, and stubborn.
. . . and I loved her very, very much.