Aug 19, 1924 – Jan 28, 2025
My grandmother died a year ago. I miss her hugs. I miss sitting around her kitchen on Saturdays. I miss summer afternoons with my cousin at the farm.
And now, in the midst of so much chaos, I miss her constant calm and her ability to love us no matter what. I wish everything could be a little more like Grandma’s table, all of us gathered and surrounded by love.
I read the following words at her memorial service last year. The green chair is now at my house. It’s a different color (the paint all chipped off when I cleaned it), but the love it held remains.
Once upon a time… the beginning of all good stories, right? My grandmother’s story began in 1924—a hundred years ago. Most of what I know about her life comes from the tales she told sitting around her kitchen table. Imagine all the things that fill the pages of her life: the mundane details, the milestones, the heartaches, the joys. Life. Death.
She lived in Detroit for a while before moving to this area as a young girl. Much of her youth was spent with her grandparents and Aunt Gin. As a teenager, she met John. The story goes that she was outside beating a rug when he drove by. He couldn’t resist putting his truck in reverse and asking her out. The rest is history. Together, they built a life, raising four children and working the farm.
I grew up next door to my grandma. I have so many fond memories of trekking down the hill, crossing the little bridge Grandpa Steve built from railroad wood, and making my way through the pasture to her back porch. My brother and I used to joke about trolls living under that bridge. Even our dog took the same path when he left the house, assuming his lookout position on Grandma’s picnic bench.
In my grandmother’s house, there’s a green chair. Or maybe it’s a stool. Whatever you call it, it has a little step and a seat just big enough for a small behind. It was always pulled up to the kitchen table when more than four people were gathered, which was often. Grandma’s house was open to everyone, and she was so well-loved that visitors seemed constant. My mom and aunts sat on that stool. I sat on it. My cousins. And now my children.
Most days, nothing particularly exciting happened at Grandma’s. Just casual chatter, old stories. But that stool holds the stories of generations. If it could speak, it would tell of laughter ringing through the kitchen, holiday dinners, birthday parties, and ordinary Saturdays that somehow felt special just because we were together. Moments that reverberate through all of us who sat around Grandma’s kitchen table.
Run your fingers along that green stool, and you might find the remnants of Hershey’s syrup, drizzled liberally over vanilla ice cream from a giant plastic gallon container. There was always ice cream at Grandma’s house. According to her, there was always room for ice cream—something about it filling in all the cracks.
Maybe you’d find a faded stain from the giant blackberries we picked on our trips down the pond road.
You might also find a smudge of paint, scotch tape, and glitter from the summer days when Hannah and I would sit at Grandma’s table, armed with scissors, glue, and old magazines. We wanted to practice our interior design skills? Grandma broke out an old shoe box and let us go. We made masterpieces—and messes—but I don’t remember her ever complaining. Spending hours together at Grandma’s, Hannah and I built the strong bond we share today.
Little feet stood on that stool, leaning against the counter as Grandma measured flour for another batch of snickerdoodles. If you wanted to help, she let you—even if you dumped all the ingredients into the bowl at once. Maybe she remembered it differently, but I swear the cookies turned out just fine. She had what felt like endless patience.
Someone sat on that stool to watch Grandpa Steve’s infamous card game antics. We all knew he cheated. Maybe Grandma let him. She was the kind who would notice but only offer a gentle, joking reprimand.
The green stool also bore witness to deep sorrow. The whispered grief when someone who should have been at the table was gone. I know it heard Grandma cry. She lost so much, but she rarely let us see her pain. Her eyes would well up, threatening to spill over, but I don’t remember seeing her really cry. I know she hurt—because she loved deeply. But she never let bitterness take hold. Even when we welcomed my daughter into the world, knowing she wouldn’t be here long, she chose love over fear.
Grandma never preached life lessons, but she definitely taught me plenty. Watching her grieve and still choose love showed me resilience. It’s what allowed me to not just carry on but to embrace life and love again after losing my daughter. It’s what gave me the openness to welcome my two boys.
Her resilience was hard-fought, but her strength paved the way for me. I once asked her how she avoided becoming bitter after so much loss. In typical LaVera fashion, she simply said, “I never really thought of it that way. Someone else always had it worse.”
I’m grateful for her strength—but I hope it didn’t cause her more pain to put that face on in front of us.
That green stool witnessed a life full of the messiness of love and loss, laughter and grief. Like my grandmother, it remained steady and strong, a quiet symbol of the comfort her home provided. Safety. Warmth. (No, really—that house was 80 degrees year-round.)
In recent years, it became even more of a priority to visit Grandma. I knew that one Saturday morning, I’d wake up and no longer have the option to go there. I craved the comfort of her kitchen, even if I had to wedge myself onto that green stool.
She never shied away from loving people. And her love was forever. A few months ago, we sat flipping through old photos with her. When we reached one of John, her eyes twinkled. “I got to marry that handsome man,” she said, beaming. Imagine loving someone that much, even after 50 years apart.
I’m reminded of the poem “Gone From My Sight”
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then, someone at my side says, “There, she is gone.”
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me — not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,”
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”
And that is dying…
I imagine her the first night after she passed. They must have added an extra leaf to the table and used the double set of cards. John beside her, her eyes twinkling with love as she looked at him. Jack. Steve. My dad, Steven. Edith all around the table. And Zoey, sitting in that green stool next to Grandma, eating a giant bowl of ice cream.
Once upon a time—the way all great stories begin. And now, this one comes to a close. It was long. Often quiet and subtle. Sometimes tragic. Always beautiful.
And, like all the best stories, I wasn’t ready for it to end. It will always be one of my favorites. I’ll thumb through its weathered pages, remembering where I came from and cherishing the exquisite circle of love created because of this woman.
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