Roadside Memorial

For some reason, as I drove past the cyclist who was waiting to cross the street, I was reminded of her. Something about the serenity on this lady's face brought back the feelings of warmth and security that came from being with her.

But one thing struck me. You would never see her on a bicycle. She was too much of a lady for that. In fact, you would never find her in pants or slacks of any kind. She always wore a dress or skirt. And practical shoes. She took great care to always carry herself with propriety and to live a quiet, upright life.

She was maybe the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I never knew her to be unkind, rude or in any way offensive. She exemplifies what a Christian should look like.

She always took time for us kids; and when she was with us, she was with us. For some odd reason, I don’t remember it ever being a drag to go spend time with her at her house. Going there after school, she would play the hostess and serve us our favorite snack, Sugar Brot (white bread, spread with butter and sprinkled with sugar) with a glass of cold whole milk. This was providing that there were none of her amazing sugar cookies in the shiny chrome cookie container embossed with penguins.

I can smell her house even now – a house that was well-kept, yet not so sterile that it lacked coziness.

I remember the way she smelled of Dove soap as I sat in her lap and she gently ran her fingernails across my back. I remember what it sounded like to hear her voice through her chest as I lay my head there, pretending to be asleep while the adults carried on their conversation after Sunday Dinner (of course, not until after everything had been cleaned and put away).

When I was older, there were cutthroat games of Scrabble with her and Aunt Esther.

I’ll never forget her laugh, her smile, her humility, her love.

I’ll never forget the last time I saw her. I sat at her bedside and we talked about life; about my upcoming move away from Kansas; about old times and fond memories. I wanted to stay longer. I knew this would be the last time I would see her “on this side”. As I stood to go, I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. I noticed, for the last time, the velvety surface of her hand as I squeezed it and released it back to her. I stopped at the door and looked back. “Keep the faith,” she said. It was the last thing I ever heard her say, and those three simple words still ring in my ears.

She was my grandma.

Bertha King Hodges
1894-1982