October First

I adore October. And not just because it's the season of costumes and candy. October 1st is my Grandma Roma's birthday.

She would be 95 today. Part of me is very glad she's not celebrating her 95th birthday on the Earth. The other part of me really misses her.



I can still hear her scratchy, morning-voice. When I was a girl (and into my teenage years) I would sleep at her house. She would wake up in the morning and make me burnt toast with homemade jam. Often she would forget to put in her teeth until afternoon. Sometimes she had to eat without them because they were lost in her bra. We would sleep in the same bed even though I had my own room in the back hallway of her trailer home. I loved her bedroom. My grandpa's clothes still hung in the closet and still smelled like him. Her colorful jewelry was always scattered on her dresser. Those bright pink clip-on earrings complimented any outfit I was wearing. I remember hearing the train whistle and running to her back porch to count the cars. I loved her well-cared for roses and picking juicy raspberries from her yard. I wish I could steal an oatmeal cookie with drizzled icing from her cookie jar. If it was empty, we would surely head to the Hostess store to fill it up. She would let me pick anything I wanted in the entire store. I would choose a coconut zinger.


What I wouldn't give to look curl up on her couch and look through her black and white photo albums. She would tell one of the many stories from her past. Maybe it would be about the Easter Sunday she met my grandpa.



She and her sisters were wearing new dresses and she told them as they walked to church that ONE of them should meet a handsome man that day. Enter Fred Clawson.


I wish I could remember my grandpa. He had a heart attack and passed away when I was four. My dad idolized his father. Fred was a smart fellow who loved to put mustard on everything. I like to think that my Luke got his great-grandfather's brain and quick wit. I inherited his love for mustard.


My grandma loved her husband and lived over 20 years as a widow. I can only imagine how hard that must have been. I'm sure she's happy celebrating her 95th with him.


Part of me feels that my Grandma is spending her birthday at my house, celebrating with my little family. She would sit in our school session and sing a song to Ben to help him memorize his multiplication table. She would listen to Luke read chapter 10 in his Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle book. She would laugh at Zack when he shook his finger at her while commanding, "NEVER EAT SOGGY WAFFLES, Grandma." She wouldn't even be annoyed with him after he said it for the 20th time. They would all enjoy sitting next to her to play with her stretchy, flabby arms.


I know she would be happy to help me finish making curtains for my kitchen later this afternoon. If only I had her mad sewing skills (and her serger!) After the curtains were hung, we would play Rummikub together. She would encourage my boys to play, but she would never go easy on us. But that's okay because it's more satisfying to whip her when she's trying hard to win. I would tell my boys to be quiet if she placed a blue tile next to a black tile and to plug their ears when she swore. She would challenge us to another game after I won.


But there's not time to play another game. She has a million other grandchildren to see... and she couldn't rest until she's visited every last one. I know that's how she would want to celebrate her birthday because that's how she celebrated her life. Before she left, she would make sure that WE KNEW she loved us and that she was proud of us.


I would tell her how much it means to me that she came to the temple the day I received my endowment. She was recovering from a bad accident and I knew she was in a lot of pain. But it seems nothing could keep her away from supporting her grandchildren and letting them know how much she cared. And despite the cane, wheelchair and neck-brace, she is still smiling.


I would bend down to hug her and squeeze her wrinkly hands and tell her that I think of her often. I look to her for strength when I am having a difficult time... because I know she went through much worse. I would tell her I'm anxious about having another baby and ask her for advice about childbirth. I would explain that we don't have a name for baby #4. I think Roman is a darling name for a little boy. I still have to convince my husband. Yet, I am holding out for a little Roma, if I ever get a girl. Does she know if I have a daughter in heaven?


I would thank her for making me always feel like I was someone special. I would tell her I loved her. I would let her know how proud I am to be HER granddaughter.