Pizza Rolls and Mints

One of my earliest memories is of my Grandmother. I must have been about two years old. I remember waking up in the crib in her spare bedroom (the piano room) and calling for my mom. Grandma came. I remember the sweet tone of her words, the smell of her perfume and the happiness I felt as she lifted me out of the crib.

Going to Grandma and Grandpa's house was always something I looked forward to. It was never a perfunctory visit. My sisters and I eagerly anticipated pulling into the driveway of the little red house on Southport Road. Grandpa would be out in the yard or barn, tinkering with an old car or mower or playing basketball. Grandma would be in the kitchen awaiting our arrival.

I'll admit, as a child, my love for Grandma was "encouraged" by her spoiling. As soon as we got through the door she'd be smothering us with hugs and insisting we turn on cartoons and eat ice cream. Oh, the food. As an adult, I probably wouldn't like it as much as I did then. Grandma had a huge freezer that was always FULL of microwavable junk food and popsicles. This was before our family had a microwave, so for the extent of our visit, I would pig out on pizza rolls, fudgecicles, french fries and glazed donuts. And pop. LOTS of pop. My poor parents.

When we got a little older, my sisters and I would take turns staying at Grandma and Grandpa's alone for a week during the summer. I remember the first time I stayed alone. I admit, I spent the first hour after my family drove away stealing into the bathroom and shedding some tears. I would have been mortified for Grandma and Grandpa to know I was crying. I was kind of a private, awkward kid. They never said a word, though I'm sure they noticed that I kept leaving the room and would come back with red eyes. By dinnertime though, I was comfortable. Grandma won me over with her famous spoiling. And that week was so much fun. All of her Grandma love was focused on me. She took me shopping, bought me toys and clothes, fed me constantly, let me watch whatever I wanted on tv. I spent hours playing outside in the huge yard and woods or exploring the treasures I'd find in boxes in her attic or "utility room". I'd scour her photo albums and books. I'd write ghost stories (something about that house and those woods inspired ghost stories). I'd go to church with them and she'd give me a whole roll of mints for the service. They took me out to eat and swimming. It was bliss.

And underneath all that initial attraction of spoiling, I got to know my Grandma during those trips. She'd tell me stories from her childhood, of her parents and brothers and sisters. When I was a teenager, I wanted to hear of how she'd met Grandpa in her teens. I was sure I'd met the man I was going to marry when I was thirteen and hearing about a romance that began in youth gave me hope that my love would make it to adulthood. (I was right.) She would encourage me to memorize passages of Scripture (there may have been monetary reward involved). She'd make me laugh with her sarcastic banter with Grandpa or her practical jokes, or the way she'd pretend to be ditzy when we explained our music or tv shows to her. She was not above pulling a downright dirty prank, like sneaking up behind the rocking chair when I was in it and jerking it backwards suddenly so I screeched like a banshee, or setting off the smoke alarm and hollering "Fire! Fire!" (Okay, that last one was in response to a prank we'd pulled on her. Guess the apples don't fall far from the tree.) There just wasn't a way to not like Grandma. She'd pull you in, make you feel like the most important person in the world, do whatever she needed to make you comfortable, all the while making you laugh.

It's been a couple months now since Grandma went home to Jesus. I know she was ready. Life for her here was getting more and more difficult. I remember a few years back when we were visiting, she showed me a picture of her brothers and wept that her lifelong friends and family were all dying. Then we lost Grandpa, a heartbreak that she would relive over and over thanks to Alzheimer's. I'm grateful for the time we had with her. I get choked up when I think of her holding our babies, kissing them and playing with them, even when she couldn't remember their names or which grandchild they belonged to. She just exuded love and warmth. And now she's home. She's not sick. Her mind is whole. She knows exactly where her husband is. And she's with her Savior.

Not a day goes by when I don't think about John and Nellie Hubble. I may have "adjusted" to them no longer being here, but that doesn't mean that I don't carry them with me throughout the rest of my life. In the weeks after Grandma's funeral, my husband and I had many conversations about my grandparents. My heart was so touched when my husband said "Let's be just like them someday."

I can think of no greater way to honor them.