The Holidays Missing A Loved One

It’s been awhile since I’ve last written in this blog.  Some of that is because it reminds me that my grandmother is gone and no longer writes this blog as she once tediously did.  The other part is that I don’t feel that I can do her justice by trying to carry on, telling her stories.  Only she lived them and could write them as she did. 

I remember watching her pecking out the letters, making mistakes and grumbling that she couldn’t type for beans, using explicatives that used to have even me, red faced and I’m no Spring Chicken myself. 

She’d compose her posts then, ask me to check them over, correct her grammar and post them for her, adding the tags. 

“I don’t know nothin’ bout those damned things,” she’d say with a wave of her hand.  “You just do what you gotta do to get ’em up there…however you damned well do it.” 

I’d laugh but, I rarely changed anything that she’d written or the way that she wrote it.  Her words were her and her stories were her stories.  What she wanted her readers to know, she said it the way she wanted them to hear it.  I left that alone, including the swear words and simply corrected the typos or the spelling. 

Unfortunately, not a lot of people ever read her words.  More people read my words about her passing than what she’d actually written.  She’d often ask, “how many people are reading what I wrote?”  I’d lie.  I’d tell her plenty of people were reading it.  “How many?” she’d ask with a demanding tone to her voice.  I’d lie again.  “About 50 or so,” I’d answer.  She seemed satisfied with that number.  Of course, her blog was new and she never got the hang of the idea that she had to like other’s blogs in order to get them to even know hers existed.  “It’s a game that bloggers play, Nana,” I’d explain. 

“I ain’t got time to read their stuff,” she’d answer with a scowl on her face.  “It’s all that I can do to stare at that blasted computer screen long enough to write what I write.  My arthritis is something awful and I can’t sit there much longer than what I do.  Too bad.” 

I loved that about her.  She was honest.  There was no guessing what she was thinking or feeling.  She’d tell you straight up what she meant and why.  If you pushed it, she’d ask you if you were deaf and end it right there and then.  There were no second chances.  You either got it or you didn’t. 

As the holidays approach rapidly, I am reminded daily that her presence at our dinner tables (yes, she ate several holiday dinners every year to please as many of us as she could), won’t be there…at least, not in physical form.  Yet, I know that she will forever be around us and I just may set her a plate anyway…at the Guest of Honor placement.  She’ll be complaining about the “damned dog trying to get up onto her chair,” but that’s ok, Nana.  We’ll keep her down from your chair.   

 

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