Anything Grandma and I did together was fun, but the “What’s Missing?” game was one of my favorites. After dinner, we went into the living room and sat on one of the 1960’s style flat brown couches that I thought were UGLY then, but have recently come back into vogue.
She laid a variety of tiny items in front of me: a pearl earring, a spool of thread, a tiny dancer broken off the inside of a music jewelry box, a building block, a collector’s spoon, a nickel. Every time we played, she chose different items, but it was always fascinating for me.  Next to the little assortment, she had an old, black clutch purse with the little brass clasp on top that you had to pinch to undo. My four-year-old fingers weren’t strong enough, but that didn’t matter. She could do that part. Let the game begin!
“Angel, are you ready? Close your eyes. No peeking!”
“Can I open them?”
“Not yet. Be patient…OK, now! What’s missing?”
I concentrated, trying to figure out which of her little trinkets she had hidden in the purse. “The ballerina?”
“What else?”
“The money?”
Grandma smiled her warm, wide, beautiful smile at me. She clicked open the clutch and dumped the tiny dancer and nickel back onto the couch. “You’re such a smart girl, Angel.”
We took turns for a long time–I could have played all night. I suppose at some point she grew tired of it, but never let on. She just smiled and asked, “Would you like some ice cream?”
“Yay! Can I have the special hard chocolate?”
“Of course.” She scooped the ice cream into a small bowl and I got to be big and pour the Magic Shell chocolate on top and watch it freeze. I loved how it broke when I pressed my spoon into it. I ate my ice cream and played with her little white china cats and kittens while she watched “Dallas” on the big console TV, and then it was time to get ready for bed. Daddy and Mommy would pick me up in the morning.
I’d forgotten my toothbrush, so she put a little bit of toothpaste on my finger and told me to rub it all over my teeth and she let me use her WaterPik to squirt and rinse my mouth. That thing was SO NEAT!
Then we went into her room and knelt down at the bed. We said the “Our Father” and asked God to bless Mommy and Daddy and all the aunts and uncles and cousins.
Then Grandma put plastic bags over the couch cushions “just in case” and covered it with a sheet and laid out an afghan and a pillow for me. She tucked me in with a kiss and a hug and we said goodnight. A few minutes later, I wanted a drink of water so I went to her room. There she was, still on her knees at her bedside, with her prayer cards with pictures of Jesus and Mary and angels.
“Can I have a glass of water?”
Ever patient, she took me into the kitchen and gave me an half-pint jelly jar half full of water and then tucked me back into bed. “Pleasant dreams, Angel.”
I fell asleep, and I’m sure I dreamed pleasant dreams because I was wrapped up in so much love.
My children love the “What’s Missing” game now and playing with them brings back such fond memories. I’d be lying if I told you it doesn’t bring tears, too. They’re flowing as I write this. Grandma died that next October at 63 years old. Now, when I play with my kids on my brown couch and look up at her picture that hangs on my living room wall, I hear her ask, “What’s missing?”
And all I can answer is, “You.”

Grandma still lived in the house where she’d raised Mom, my two aunts and three uncles. Grandpa had gone to Heaven when Mom was 11, so now it was just Uncle David and Grandma alone. The two story house had white siding and black shutters and sat way back off the road. There were two sets of railroad tracks that ran alongside the road and the long gravel driveway crossed them as it wound its way to the house. There was an old windmill on one side of the driveway and on the other side lay two cellar doors. As a little girl, it reminded me of Aunt Em and Uncle Henry’s house in The Wizard of Oz—a classic farmhouse.
The cows, pigs and chickens were long gone; all that remained was an old mare, a German Shepherd named April, and the occasional flock of ducks that would land in the pond. On a cool spring day, I begged to go out to feed them. Before I could leave the house, Grandma tied an old scarf on my head and smiled down at me, “You have to wear your babushka so you don’t get an earache.” Grandma was always taking care of everybody else. She made me wait at the top of the rickety cellar stairs while she went down to get the stale bread. I imagined it was quite spooky down there but Grandma was so brave. After a moment, she emerged from the dark basement and we were on our way.
I played dare-devil walking across the slippery rocks that crossed the tiny feeder stream as we made our way down to the pond. When I slipped, I delighted in squishing my red galoshes in the mud. When we were close enough, we threw the pieces of bread to the greedy ducks. They quacked and splashed as they tried to reach the white flecks before the others could steal them away. As we made our way back to the house, Grandma gingerly stepped around the big stones that lined the side of the driveway and laughed, “Angel, you’re getting too big. I’m going to put that stone on your head so you don’t grow any more.”
I didn’t want to stop growing. I had only turned four that winter and I had a lot more growing to do and many more springs with Grandma. I couldn’t know nor understand that soon she wouldn’t be fighting my growth, but instead the growth of something sinister inside of her, something that would steal her from me before I turned five. It was something I would hate and fear the rest of my life: cancer.

*                *                  *

Don’t worry. This blog will not be all memories of my grandmother.

I tell you this story as my first because my memories of Grandma have shaped me into the woman I’ve become in so many ways. When her dad and brothers died (of, I think, tuberculosis), she went to work to help support her family. I think she was 11. It was the middle of the Great Depression. As she grew older, she did everything: working in and out of the home, being a landlord, cooking, sewing, gardening, farming, raising children, loving deeply, and praying always.  I have always held her up as a primary role model for my life. But she died so young. She was only 63. She should have lived longer. Cancer should not have stolen her away so young. And so, that has made me want to learn about different causes of cancer and illness and how to try to avoid them so that I can hopefully live a long, healthy life to be there for my children and grandchildren. She was an amazing woman and I wish every day that she was still here for me to ask her questions. But she’s not, and so, I make it a point to remember as much as I can about her and from others who have come before us and weave it in with life in the 21st century. This is where I come from and what I hope to share with you.

Welcome to my blog.

Angel