96

If you were expecting to read something D-related on my blog today, you’ll be disappointed as today’s post has nothing to do with diabetes. But if you’ll forgive me for the detour, I’d like to share a personal blog about my grandmother. She’s my only living grandparent, and today is her birthday. This post will probably mean nothing to those who read it, but that’s OK with me because as I typed the words, my mind was flooded with fond memories of my childhood. So if you’ll be so kind as to indulge me…

Today, this beautiful woman turns 96 years young. Can you believe that? I don’t think she looks a day over 75.

This amazing and inspiring woman is my grandmother — my mom’s mom. She was a wife for 62 years until my grandfather passed away. She is the mother of three, a girl and two boys. She’s the grandmother to six, myself being the youngest, and she’s a great-grandmother seven times over. I am lucky to have such an incredible family. Both sets of my grandparents were married until death, and I didn’t lose my first grandparent, my mom’s dad, until I was a sophomore in highschool. My dad’s parents passed away during my junior year at Auburn. While I was close to all of my grandparents, my maternal grandmother is in a class all her own.

Grandma Shipley “got” me. She understood me and we connected more as friends. While she was stern and expected good behavior, she gave the best hugs — completely enveloping me in her arms and covering my face in kisses. She’s the strongest woman I know or have ever known, which she is still proving in her 96th year. All of my grandparents used to tell me stories of their lives as children in rural Tennessee and Virginia, but Grandma Shipley’s stories are the ones I still seem to remember the clearest. I think it’s because her mother was still alive when I was young, and I spent lazy summer days playing outside when we’d go visit her. I could visualize my grandmother’s stories because I had seen the house she grew up in, the farm and the pot-bellied stove. When she shared her childhood, I could picture it plain as day.

My grandmother was the firstborn of eight children, four girls and four boys. The other three daughters didn’t live more than a few weeks, leaving my grandmother as the only girl to fend off five brothers. She once told me about each birth and how she was my great-grandmother’s distraction while she was in labor. To say she is tough is an understatment. The woman could handle anything that came her way, and in some ways, she’s still doing that. She’s even a 9-year breast cancer survivor, having been diagnosed the day my youngest nephew was born. I remember stories she would tell me about growing up on a farm in east Tennessee. Life was so very different back then — something that’s hard to imagine. To think about the advances we have made in 96 years would be unfathomable had I not lived through some of them and seen them with my own eyes. (I still remember life before cell phones and Internet — gasp). My grandmother worked her entire life, but her family always came first. (She once met Wernher von Braun when he visited a plant where she made circuit boards for NASA — something she told me just after I moved to Huntsville). In high school, she could help run a farm, cook dinner, help take care of four rascally boys and still found time to play basketball for her highschool — back when it was half-court and women didn’t really play sports.

The best memories I have of my grandmother involve her cooking, which I miss terribly since she no longer cooks. I remember the smell of her fried chicken and how she always saved the grease from everything she cooked. Somehow, she knew the right amount to add to scrambled eggs. (I have tried to make her eggs a gazillion times, but fail miserably at each effort). She hid chocolate candy in a particular drawer in her dresser and always had a bowl of mints or individual chocolates in the living room. She wore clip-on earrings and would let me try some on when I was a girl. As long as I can remember, she wore slip on shoes, often of a metallic color like gold or silver. She had a furnice vent in the middle of the hallway, and I was always scared to step on it even though it was no longer operational. She kept potato chips in the dishwasher in an effort to hide them, and after I was diagnosed with diabetes, she hid the Fudge Rounds under the kitchen sink — which clearly, I found.

She kept the flower beds perfect and the hedges trimmed regularly — something she took great pride in. There was always an American flag hanging from the front of the house, and she decorated beautifully at Christmas. Growing up, my family lived in Alabama, so we’d travel to Virginia three times a year for visits, staying at least a week each time. My childhood Christmas-morning memories are from her home where Santa always delivered our presents. Her tree always had gold ornaments on it and had white lights. I remember finding envelopes and cards in that tree each Dec. 25. I found my first dollhouse under that tree as well as my collection of New Kids on the Block action figures. (Don’t judge me, it was the 80s people). I even remember finding the elf shoes Santa left for me one year next to the front door. I also remember the Christmas morning she helped my dad perform CPR on my Baby Alive over the kitchen sink because I’d managed to feed it every pack (and refill pack) of food in a span of two hours.

My Grandma Shipley was a particular woman and still is. She likes things her way, and that’s how they are. She didn’t leave the house without her hair done and make-up on. She drove the same car (a giant, green boat) until her children MADE her buy a new one. She was the biggest Atlanta Braves fan you can imagine and at one time, could name the entire roster. In fact, the only time in my life I remember hearing her curse involved a playoff game and a Braves pitcher. Every meal she cooked and pie she baked was absolutely perfect. Her macaroni and cheese was the best the world has to offer (and I’ve made it my life’s mission to perfect the recipe: see left). She loved all of her grandchildren equally and would have done anything for any one of them — beyond what grandmothers are supposed to do. As a child living eight hours away, she always sent birthday cards with money, and as an adult, she continued. In college, I still received cards with a $5 bill and a note instructing me to “go enjoy a hamburger.” I miss my grandmother terribly, and each time I go home to see my parents, I make sure to drive an extra hour and a half to see her. She lives in Abingdon, Va., in an assisted living home. She’s had Alzheimer’s for several years, and each visit home scares me because I fear it may be my last.

But then I sit with her and talk, and I realize, she’s tougher than nails. She’ll probably outlive me with that stubborn streak she has. While mostly she’s confused, and often calls me by my mother’s name, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of the grandmother I so fondly remember. Those are the moments I treasure — when she calls me by name and tells me she’s proud of me and who I’ve become. So to my grandmother, Happy Birthday! Thank you for so many wonderful memories and for being the best grandmother a girl could have. Thanks for teaching me how to be strong and independent while being nurturing and kind at the same time. I wish I could see my grandmother today and celebrate, but I’ll be home in a couple of weeks, and I promise to bring her a box of Russell Stover candies.