My Grandma Betty died on Sunday.
My Grandma Buttsy, who I can envision clearly, puttering around the kitchen, making mashed potatoes and offering me grape soda.
She once made me a popcorn ball the size of a basketball for my birthday.
She had a garden that was so lovely, so tasty, that I thought for sure her gardening genes were so strong they would automatically be passed on to me. Alas . . .my attempts at gardening will never compare to Grandma Betty's.
Happy Birthday to my Grandma Betty. To Grandma Elizabeth Bird Lake Stablein. Grandma Buttsy. The woman who will always remain in my mind as slightly chubby and jovial and blessed with a head of thick and lovely hair. Seeing her now, light as a child and just as helpless, it is hard to envision her as a bustling busybody shooing the kids out of the kitchen while she adds more butter to the giant bowl of mashed potatoes. Grape soda. Grandma Buttsy always had grape soda on hand for us, even if it was sometimes flat. She loved to watch the news. She taught us how to gamble.
In movies, the daughter or the granddaughter or the niece walks into the room and sees a perfectly made hospital bed and immediately knows. She sits down on the bed, with her blubbering and her honking stifled by her shuddering hands, and she mourns what has passed. Who has passed. Or maybe the woman rages at the empty room, knocking over IV poles or a lamp, calling out for her lost loved one.