Thirty years ago in June, my Grandma Grace rode along on a three thousand mile round trip to see Greg and I finally Graduate from College. She came through a lot of hot desert in a car with no air conditioner and was obviously in pain but determined to be there. She had always been there for me.
But not long after leaving our beaches and redwoods and seeing us both accept teaching jobs in Crescent City. She went in the hospital and was revealed to have a huge abdominal tumor she had hidden for years by binding her waist each day. She was never one to think she should slow down for anything, especially self care. She never left the hospital and the family gathered in her hospital room for several days, but she sent us out, to take your mom yard sale-ing and get a break. And died once she was alone, as I am sure she intended. I’m also sure she intended to go that day, and not leave me with the memory of her death on my birthday of the ninth. Of course that birthday, her absence was a huge presence. We didn’t celebrate, but rather drove into Yellowstone, walking wounded among the surfer scented steam clouds and climbing above the crowds to isolated hilltops. My mom, Dad, brothers and Greg and I together in our memories of her and this favorite place.
