My Grandma

That's my grandmother on the left and my mother on the right in a photo taken somewhere in the 1960s. Today would have been my grandma's 114th birthday, but she died at the age of 90. She was feisty, but sweet. She always had plenty of time to talk with her grandchildren--or anybody else for that matter--and she always cooked enough food for an army. She was a force to be reckoned with.

She was funny. She put ketchup on Oreos just to freak out her grandchildren. All the kids called her Grandma--even if she wasn't their own grandma. She was soft--some people would call her fat--but maybe they didn't know how good it felt to snuggle up to her plumpness.

At sixteen, she fell in love with an immigrant, but her mother told her she was too young to marry. He went away to war and became a US citizen. Three years later, he returned and they were married. They had seven children.

My grandmother had cervical cancer and survived. She had her gall bladder taken out. She worked hard raising children. She grew tons of vegetables and canned them. She didn't complain.

When my grandfather refused to buy her a new stove, she went on strike. After two weeks, he bought her a new stove.

She was the best grandmother ever.