I spent yesterday celebrating the life of my grandmother, Dorothy Carter.
It's hard to put into words what she meant to our family. She served as the glue that held us together at the worst of times, and the better times, she absolutely swelled with pride. At all times, she had a heart that was completely filled with love.
Often, that love spilled over in ways that still make us laugh. When I was probably in middle school or high school, she had bought some cherry cordial ice cream for a family get-together. Her feasts always more than filled us up, though, ice cream or no. She went around offering everyone ice cream, and no one wanted any. She was clearly distraught over the fact that nobody wanted any, so I spoke up and said, "I'll take some, Grandma!" Even though I didn't really care for cherry cordial ice cream, I gobbled it down, insisting that I was loving every bite.
Everyone used to give me a hard time, because every time I came back to their house, she had a brand new tub of cherry cordial ice cream that she would pull out, just for me. She knew it made me happy, and she wanted me to be happy.
My happy place was in their basement, where I could sit and watch TV and smell my grandpa's pipe tobacco. It was always cold down there, and there was a huge trunk that contained old blankets and my uncle's Purdue football jersey. That basement also had some eerie, slightly damp closets packed with ancient memories, and a bar that I always assumed had served up some rocking parties in its heyday.
After exploring down there (or much more often, just chilling), I would go back up those creaky stairs, with each step raising the volume of the laughter of my dad and uncles upstairs, followed by the laughter of everyone else. As I reached the top and swung the door open to their kitchen, it was clear that my happy place wasn't truly in their basement (as much as I could curl up down there and take a nap right now). It was upstairs, the place where everyone felt so welcome, where everyone would say, "Where have you been?"
Tonight, I find myself thinking about one day, when my time comes, of climbing up the stairs, each step getting louder and louder with the beautiful, raucous sound of my family, and reaching the top, opening the door, and seeing everyone mid-laughter, turning, and saying, "Where have you been?"
It's hard to put into words what she meant to our family. She served as the glue that held us together at the worst of times, and the better times, she absolutely swelled with pride. At all times, she had a heart that was completely filled with love.
Often, that love spilled over in ways that still make us laugh. When I was probably in middle school or high school, she had bought some cherry cordial ice cream for a family get-together. Her feasts always more than filled us up, though, ice cream or no. She went around offering everyone ice cream, and no one wanted any. She was clearly distraught over the fact that nobody wanted any, so I spoke up and said, "I'll take some, Grandma!" Even though I didn't really care for cherry cordial ice cream, I gobbled it down, insisting that I was loving every bite.
Everyone used to give me a hard time, because every time I came back to their house, she had a brand new tub of cherry cordial ice cream that she would pull out, just for me. She knew it made me happy, and she wanted me to be happy.
My happy place was in their basement, where I could sit and watch TV and smell my grandpa's pipe tobacco. It was always cold down there, and there was a huge trunk that contained old blankets and my uncle's Purdue football jersey. That basement also had some eerie, slightly damp closets packed with ancient memories, and a bar that I always assumed had served up some rocking parties in its heyday.
After exploring down there (or much more often, just chilling), I would go back up those creaky stairs, with each step raising the volume of the laughter of my dad and uncles upstairs, followed by the laughter of everyone else. As I reached the top and swung the door open to their kitchen, it was clear that my happy place wasn't truly in their basement (as much as I could curl up down there and take a nap right now). It was upstairs, the place where everyone felt so welcome, where everyone would say, "Where have you been?"
Tonight, I find myself thinking about one day, when my time comes, of climbing up the stairs, each step getting louder and louder with the beautiful, raucous sound of my family, and reaching the top, opening the door, and seeing everyone mid-laughter, turning, and saying, "Where have you been?"
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