A treat was toast, thick with sweet creamery butter and sugar on top, velvety crisp with pops of crunchy sweet granules between our teeth. Comfort for any illness was freshly brewed tea and dry toast. Fun was in card games played, songs sung, cookies baked. Patience always present, extended for repeated lessons in crochet and knitting. Tenderness swept across a cheek by a hand, pale and knotty with age. Joy infused the varied and many moments with her: at home, in the quiet when she watched us while our parents traveled to the loud commotion amidst the gifts and wrappings of Christmas with six aunts and uncles, 13 cousins and our family of five. The sought-after prize was her spending the night, her prayer of grace at the dinner table, and kind words extended to all.
I’m not sure how old she was when I was born, but she never seemed to change. She was short, maybe five-feet, a little plump and always in some pale floral dress. Her hands were soft and wrinkled; her nails kept neat, gently curved. She always wore her wedding ring, though her husband died when their oldest, my father, was only 16. She never remarried, and her eyes would fill with tears when talking about her beloved even forty years later. Her cheeks were soft and round and would become rosy with a half glass of wine – she always laughed about that. Her laugh was contagious, light and cheery, song-like. Her hair never changed – short, soft, gray, curls framing her face. And she always wore gray-rimmed, round glasses that accentuated her blue eyes, inviting and kind.
Her name: Loretta Marie (DeMol) O’Connor. Her name to us was Gronkie, given by her oldest grandchild.
She was the matriarch, the glue, the yarn that knit us together, ruling not by rod or wealth or control but by goodness, kindness, compassion, and love.
She was our grandmother. She was my oasis.
I have no doubt that she knew little of the brutality in which I was raised. She knew but she didn’t know of the dry desert in which I resided. She knew but she didn’t know of the hardness in the hearts of each parent. She may have known of some of the blows that landed, but she never knew of the dark nights waiting, wondering when he would make his next coital visit. There certainly was no room for her voice to invite any change into the ridged, closed system of our dark, cold house.
And yet, her voice, her gaze, her kindness always found their way to me.
When she watched over us in our parents’ absence, her presence filled our house like sweet lavender on rolling hills. Her light warmed and illuminated our house. The heavy shroud lifted and darkness fled from every nook and every cranny. The air became breathable as if rain washed in spring, floating through windows open wide.
In her presence, I felt safe; I felt loved. I felt a kind-of warm, soft blanket that rested on my shoulders and wrapped itself around my young, battle-worn body. Her eyes hugged and held me even from across a crowded room. There was a knowing with her that everything was going to work out, somehow, in some mysterious way, everything was going to be okay, that I was okay. In her eyes I was not broken, bad, or undesirable. No, in her eyes I was wanted, I was delighted in, I was loved.
Her presence transported me into a different universe. Standing close, gentle whistles of some Irish tune, soft drumming of fingers on the counter top as I played with her ring on her finger, waiting for the delectable treat baking – chatting, teaching, a recipe handed down. Seated close, sweet chiding bringing no shame as she carefully and thoughtfully taught me, once again, “knit two, purl one,” or “chain and then back post again.” Or opponents across the table top, eyes peering above playing cards, plotting the next move, trying to guess the other’s next move – playful, taunting, laughing, opening hearts.
In her presence our house became a home. In her eyes I saw what my heart longed for – I am loved, I am treasured, I am seen, I am known. And I believe, one day, I will once again hear her soft voice and gaze into her kind, blue eyes, and she will say to me, “Welcome home, Honey. Welcome home.”
Erin’s favorite name to be called is “Grammy.” She enjoys making crafts with, playing board games with, and reading to her granddaughter. Erin has two grown children and lives in a suburb of Chicago. She enjoys mentoring others, reading, writing, and seeing God’s handiwork in nature. Erin is a professional counselor and is a contributing author of several devotionals published in the book Quiet Reflections of Hope. Erin’s hope is to bring goodness and kindness to others as it has been brought to her.nbsp
Sweet friend, this is such beautiful writing! I can feel the warmth and love spilling over onto me as I take my place beside Gronkie through the gift of your prose. Stunning. Thank you for the love that has encircled me today with your words. Love to you, Christine
Beautifully written, my warrior friend! Thank you for introducing us to Gronkie, your oasis of gentle kindness. Much love and many blessings, Sheila ❤️
Erin, I could have written this piece with very few changes Irish to Polish, baking cookies to baking rolls, knitting to quilting, etc.). The power of a grandmother’s love and acceptance is a joy unlike any other and something to be celebrated indeed. Thank you for this piece. It is beautiful and it filled me with sweet memories.
Oh Erin…how lovely to have the hopeful presence of your Gronkie in the midst of such foul engagement of your heart, body and soul. Breathe deeply, even now, of sweet lavender memories of her! I bet she’s waiting expectantly for her beloved Erin.
I, too, had a grandma “Meemie” who provided a safe place of rest for me. I remember resting my face against her fur collar when she came to visit, breathing in her lilac scent. The phrase “she knew and she didn’t know” captured me. I wonder how much my grandma sensed of the violence of the nighttimes. I am so sad you had to experience that reality, woven through your growing up years. And grateful for the moments with your safe person, that invited growing up.
What a beautiful picture of your Gronkie! I hope I can be that to my grandkids!
Thank you for sharing the vulnerable bitter and sweet, Erin…you are a beautiful writer and I appreciate your willingness to share both the dark and light that so many of us experienced…Your writing was a gift to take in!
Dear Friends and Warriors,
Thank you for the kindness of your words. I am grateful for each. I am so glad Gronkies essense has touched your hearts as well. She would love to know each of you.
With gratitude and love,
Erin
Erin – this is a beautiful tribute to your grandmother. How wonderful to love the presence of someone like you loved hers. She left her mark on you gentle friend! ❤️❤️
I love you how described your Gronkie – I felt like I knew her. I wanted to be known by her too. I don’t know you, but I can imagine your own grandchildren speaking the same things of you. That you too are an oasis for those you love and the lives you touch. Thanks for sharing you and her with us. <3
Erin, wow, wow, wow. I loved this and my heart broke as well… I am grateful for your Gronkie. You are a gifted writer and your words convey so much. This paragraph is amazing. She was SO interactive with you. I love that and I trust you are an even more amazing grandmother than she was. Hugs and love sent to you across the many miles.