My grandmother, Lora Vee Wesson, died early Thursday morning. She would have turned 90 on Christmas day.
What can I say about Grandma Wesson? I really only knew her as a child knows a long-distance grandparent. Growing up, our relationship consisted mostly of “I love you” messages filtered through my mother and the annual birthday card stuffed with crisp 10 dollar bill.
My memories of those times we did spend together are mostly fond. She loved me and my sister very much, and we loved her right back. Sure, she called me “precious” a lot (which can be quite traumatic for a young man), and she didn’t let me walk by her without drawing me in for one of those cringeworthy “grandma” hugs. But that is a small price to pay to be the temporary center of someone’s universe.
I remember picking grapes from the vines in her backyard, and how my legs stuck to her plastic-covered furniture. I remember exploring the forest behind her house, searching for adventure. I remember teaching her how to play Nintendo – Super Mario World, and no, she wasn’t very good. I remember playing songs for her on my guitar (she called it "pickin"). They were probably mangled renditions of awful metal songs, but she grinned and bobbed her head and pretended as if it was the most beautiful music she had ever heard.
Most of all I remember my grandmother’s freshly baked pies. If ever there was a Michelangelo of pie-making, it was my Grandma Wesson, and chocolate meringue was her Sistine Chapel.
I grew older, and so did she. Though I had begun to explore the rebellious boundaries of adolescence, she still saw fit to call me “precious”. That held true even after I became an adult, after she had traded her house with the grape vines and the plastic-covered furniture for a nursing home. Around the time I got married, the ravishes of time began to take away her memories. Soon she no longer called me “precious”. She no longer knew me.
I was fortunate enough to see my grandmother just two weeks ago. Jenny and I were visiting Mississippi when she was rushed to the hospital. We went there with my mother, who has stood at my grandmother’s bedside throughout her darkest hours. There was fear and confusion in her brilliant blue eyes. For hours we held her hand and we stroked her silver hair, trying to soothe her tantrums. It had been many years since my grandmother has known who I was, so I was surprised when she looked up at me on two occasions and said, “Jeffrey”. Her face was lit up like a kid’s on the Fourth of July. And once I even made her laugh. These moments were fleeting, but I will always cherish each and every one of them.
Jenny brought home pie the night Grandma Wesson died. Of course it was no match for her chocolate meringue, but we enjoyed it anyway in her memory. I love you, Grandma. I’m happy you’ve found peace.
