“It was important for me to understand that I was only a very small part of her picture. She was a person before she was my grandmother, and that was something I had never precisely considered.” ~Ani Baker

She would be 109 years old today, born on March 22, 1914, shortly before the beginning of World War I in a small Texas town, and she never strayed far from her roots during her 92 years of life. Granny was the youngest of four children, and she often talked about how they spoiled her as the baby of the family. In 1927 when she was 13 years old, Granny lost her 19 year old sister, Ruth, who died during childbirth along with the baby. That loss greatly affected Granny, and she often spoke to me of that tragic event. 

A lot happened in the world during Granny's lifetime. She saw the growth of both the radio and telephone which made their way into homes in America in the 1920's and 1930's. She would often talk about how at one time in her life they had a "party line" where several neighbors were on the same telephone line. In the evenings, her daddy would play an instrument (I can't remember what) over the telephone while she and her siblings sang, and other neighbors would get on the line and enjoy the free concert. She would also talk about listening in on neighbors' phone conversations, and she knew the neighbors listened in on theirs as well.

She lived through the Great Depression, during which time she gave birth to two sons - my daddy and my uncle Bill. She never talked to me about that period of her life, but I'm sure she suffered hardship like the rest of the country did at that time. She also lived through World War II. The only thing I remember her saying about that war was her recollections about the bombing of Pearl Harbor. She told me about how they listened to President Roosevelt's address to the nation on the radio, hearing first hand that famous line, "December 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy..." 

Granny lived a simple life - she never even learned to drive a car. When my PawPaw passed away in 1979, my daddy told her he would teach her how to drive. Her response? Sell the car - she had no desire to be behind the wheel. She was only 64 years old at that time - just seven years older than I am now. 

Granny loved to cook, and no one in my life has ever prepared anything that tastes half as good as Granny's cooking. She shared several of her recipes with me, but even when I make them exactly as she did, they just never taste as good as Granny's did. Holidays saw her table piled high with everyone's favorite foods, often overflowing to nearby furniture because the table wasn't big enough to hold it all. In fact, she always put her homemade candy on her bed because that was the only place where there was room for it. Granny also loved to eat. I remember going by her house one day after I was old enough to drive, and she had just pulled a beautiful coconut cream pie out of the oven. I asked if she was expecting company, and she said, "No, it's all for me!" It must've been, because she didn't offer me a piece!

Granny suffered a lot of loss in her life, but I guess that happens when you live to be 92. She lost my uncle (her baby) to cancer when he was only 65 years old, and she lost my dad in an accident a few years later when he was 68. I'll never forget the morning after that accident when my brother and I went to the nursing home where she lived to tell her that he was gone. It makes me cry even now - almost 20 years later - to remember that day, and her tears as the realization settled in upon her that she would never see him again - her oldest boy.  I also remember the searing image of my aunt pushing Granny's wheelchair up to his casket a few days later as she said her goodbyes.

In her last years, Granny's mind and memory faded. I would often go visit her and she wouldn't always know exactly who I was. When I reminded her that I was her granddaughter, she would say, "Oh, yes! You've always been my favorite!" I'm quite sure she said that to my brother and cousins as well. 

On her last birthday in 2006 I visited her, and it was a lovely spring day. The nursing home where she lived had a beautiful garden area outside, so I grabbed a wheelchair on my way in so that I could take her outside for a bit. She didn't want to go, but I insisted. Quite reluctantly, she finally got into the wheelchair, then looked at me very seriously and said, "Are you a good driver? That road out there (the hallway) is so busy!" I promised her I was licensed and experienced, and that seemed to satisfy her. While we were sitting outside enjoying the day, she looked at me and said, "You're pretty - do you have a boyfriend?" I told her I was married and had three children, and she just smiled, and said, "Oh, I know that!"

I was with her on her last day on this earth - a long, difficult day, made bearable only by a very helpful hospice nurse who walked me through some difficult decisions. I remember driving home at the end of that day, knowing she had passed into the arms of a gracious God and was reunited with those she loved so much - including my daddy. 

Granny, Caleb, and Daddy

Granny was never the get-down-in-the-floor-and-play kind of grandmother, and I think a lot of that is because of the era she grew up in. But she loved me, and I never had any doubts about that. I always loved to go to Granny's house, and spending the night there was a special treat. Granny's house became a welcomed haven during one especially difficult year in my life when my parents were living in Chicago and I felt like I didn't really have a home. Granny was always glad to see me, and her home was a place where you never had to knock. I can still see her sitting in her chair watching TV, smiling when she realized it was me walking through the door, and welcoming me in to sit and visit a bit. It was my Granny I couldn't wait to go visit right after Jeff proposed to show her my ring, and it was Granny I was so anxious to call when I learned I was pregnant with twins. I clearly remember introducing each of my children to their great-Granny, and I'm thankful they have their own memories of her. 

I've thought about Granny a lot in a different way since I became a Mimi, knowing that my Granny loved me like I love my grand babies. That knowledge makes her even more special. I am 50 years older than Lydia - Granny was 52 years older than me. Granny always seemed "old" to me, and I know my grandchildren think the same of me, even though I might not feel that way. I also know that Lydia, Henry, Owen, Noah, Charlotte and Lyla see me as their Mimi - just a small part of the picture of my life. That's also the way I saw Granny. 

Fredrik Backman wrote, "Having a grandmother is like having an army. This is a grandchild's ultimate privilege: knowing that someone is on your side, always, whatever the details." I felt that from my Granny, and I hope my grandchildren always feel the same from me.

"Nothing in this world compares to the comfort and security of having someone just hold your hand." ~Richelle E. Goodrich

It first occurred on November 15, 1986 - a cold, cloudy Saturday spent touring the Oil Museum in Kilgore and watching the Texas A&M football game on TV. That same evening we enjoyed dinner at Johnny Cace's in Longview. It was there that it happened. As we exited the car and strolled across the parking lot to the entrance, Jeff took my hand in his for the first time.

I remember the butterflies associated with that event and the beginning of a lifelong relationship. As we grew to know one another during our dating days, Jeff would often situate my hand in his in the car as he shifted the gears of his 1980 Honda Accord. He held my hand as we would sit together discussing life, our beliefs, and the future. And just like that first time, he would often catch my hand in his while walking together.

January 2, 1988

In May of 1987 Jeff held my hand once more - after placing a diamond ring on the third finger of my left hand while asking me to marry him. Then, on this day 35 years ago - January 2, 1988 - Jeff clasped both of my hands in his as we stood in front of our family and friends and made vows before God to love, honor and cherish one another "for as long as we both shall live." He enveloped my hand in his as we ran to the car through a heavy shower of rice at the end of that day, and we continued to hold hands through the early married days that followed.

Then kids came along...

During the hectic years of feeding, diapering, and keeping our three tiny humans alive, Jeff and I rarely had an opportunity to hold each other's hands. Our hands were busy, clutching little hands and bodies. But those little ones grew up, and soon we returned to our old, familiar patterns. In fact, we slipped back into that groove quite nicely. 

Jeff has held my hand through most of life's twists and turns over the past 35 years. His hand has enveloped mine every night as we pillow our heads and pray together, as well as those times we bow our heads in public worship to pray, and as we pray together before our meals. He grasped my hand two different times when it was was attached to an IV as our children entered this world. And he also clutched my hand tightly the day we sat in a doctor's office and heard the words, "I'm so sorry but we cannot find a heartbeat on the ultrasound."

Jeff took my hand in his quietly beneath the table as we sat in a funeral home conference room in October of 2003, still in shock that we were there, making funeral arrangements for my dad. He also grabbed my hand as we sat at his father's funeral nine years later. 

What began as an uncertain, silent move by a young man to express his interest in a young lady grew into a comforting habit. According to medical studies, hand holding provides many benefits, including decreased stress, relief of pain, boosts in oxytocin, reduction in anxiety, and a lowering of blood pressure and heart rate. I wasn't surprised to read all of that, because when Jeff takes my hand, things are always better.

“Nothing, I learned, brings you into the present quite like
holding hands. The past seemed irrelevant; the future,
unnecessary.”~ Catherine Lowell

At Caleb and Julie's wedding this past October, the photographer snapped a picture of our hands during the ceremony. When I saw it in the album, I was surprised for a moment. I didn't remember holding his hand, but there we were - a special moment in time captured as we watched our youngest, our only son, beginning his love journey with the one whose hand he will hold throughout life. 

Today is our 35th wedding anniversary. It has been my distinct honor and privilege to hold Jeff Stewart's hand in good times and bad during those years, and an even greater blessing to have my hand held by his. Our hands are older now, and they show the scars and wrinkles of life and time. Throughout my life I've clasped the hands of friends, my children, and others, but no other pair of hands provides the familiarity and comfort that comes when Jeff takes my hand. 

Happy Anniversary, my love. I pray God will give us many more years walking through this wonderfully blessed life He has given us hand in hand.

"By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." ~John 13:35

Last weekend we were blessed to witness the union of Caleb and Julie in marriage, and we gained a wonderful new daughter in the process. Some in our physical family traveled long distances to be there in Lubbock with us, and we loved being reunited with them. Caleb's aunt and uncle from Georgia purchased plane tickets and a hotel room, taking three days out of their week to be with us. Both of Caleb's grandmothers and his step-grandfather drove long distances - something that is not easy to do when you're in your 80's. A cousin of Caleb's and her family also made the drive from out of town. And while we were touched by all of that, it's really not surprising - after all, they are family! They've known Caleb since birth, they share his DNA, and they wanted to share in the joy of this major event in his life. No one looks at the sacrifices they made to be there and thinks, "Wow! That is remarkable!" We almost expect they will come - they are family, and that's what family does.

However, as I looked around that weekend - both at the rehearsal dinner and at the wedding - I was overwhelmed by the love I saw for the new Mr. and Mrs. Stewart. I don't know specific details about who all might have been there from Julie's family and friends, or where all they came from. But I do know what I saw among those from Caleb's side. People who have known and loved Caleb throughout his life came from all over the US. 

Many drove from the DFW area to be in Lubbock on a Friday evening at 5:30 pm. That meant that they had to take a day off work and find a hotel, which was not an easy nor an inexpensive task - it was Baylor weekend for Texas Tech, so hotels were difficult to find and prices were GREATLY increased. One couple in their 80's drove seven hours from Tyler in rainy, windy weather to be there. Others came from all over the great state of Texas, Minnesota, Florida, Arkansas, and the state of Missouri had a quite a large representation. Why would they all do that? 

I looked around that crowd of about 400 people, most of whom had no shared DNA with either Caleb or Julie, and was deeply touched by what I saw. In that throng, I got to meet the daughter of a friend of mine from my teenage years - Katharine and her husband are friends of Caleb, and I was in her parents' wedding. My friendship with her mother began as a result of our shared faith, which is the same way her daughter and my son are now connected. I also met Alaina's parents, Christie and Steven. Alaina is married to Caleb's best man, Cody. Even though it was the first time I had met Christie and Steven, I knew of them already - they often opened their DFW area home to Caleb, even celebrating his birthday one year with a cake and a party. That meant the world to this mom of a then-single son who found himself alone and far away from family on his birthday.

Friends of Caleb's from his Missouri camp years showed up from all over, including the Modins who were the camp directors during Caleb's early years there. Others who have been a part of Caleb's life since he was a little fella came, even going so far as to help with set-up and clean-up - both at the rehearsal dinner and at the wedding. These are the same ones who drove to College Station when he graduated from Texas A&M several years ago. Others were there from Caleb's college days - older couples and families from the Twin City church who became family to our kids during their time there, and many of his college friends. 

So who are all of these people, and what is the commonality that links us all together? I've already said it's not DNA. It's something stronger than that. We are bound by the blood of Christ. We all have the same Heavenly Father - we are brothers and sisters, having been adopted into His family. And what a family it is!

We often speak about what a blessing it is to be part of God's family when we are suffering in this life. I have experienced that first-hand. When my dad passed away, brothers and sisters in Christ went above and beyond, seeing to the needs of my family in ways I could've never anticipated. I've seen the same thing played out countless times in the lives of others. But last weekend, I saw this kinship in a time of great rejoicing.

As the ceremony began and those 400 people joined their voices together to sing "Behold Our God", I was deeply moved. Four hundred souls praising "our God, seated on His throne,... nothing can compare, come let us adore Him!" The people described above love Caleb, Julie and our families because they love God and so do we. He is our common thread.

 

In Matthew 12:46-50, we read,"While Jesus was still talking to the crowd, his mother and brothers stood outside, wanting to speak to him. Someone told him, 'Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.' He replied to him, 'Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?' Pointing to his disciples, he said, 'Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.'" In Matthew 19:29, when asked by Peter what he would have for leaving all and following Jesus, the Lord answered,  "And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or lands, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold and will inherit eternal life." 

In that wedding venue last weekend, I was surrounded by Caleb's mothers, fathers, grandparents, brothers and sisters. People who would sacrifice their time, energy and money to share with him in one of the most important events in his life. People who I know he could call who would be there in a heartbeat if he needed something. They are my mothers, fathers, grandparents, brothers and sisters, too. What a blessing to be part of the family of God!

"But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God's people..." ~1 Peter 2:9-10

""She loved a boy very, very much - even more than she loved herself." ~Shel Silverstein

I wasn't a rookie the day he was born. I had given birth once before - a "two-for-one" deal to fraternal twin girls. But his birth was much different. The first had been an emergency c-section after spending six very long weeks in the hospital. His was a scheduled c-section after spending nine very long months chasing around a couple of very active two-year-olds. The first did little to prepare me for the second. 

 I had also been a mom for over two years when he arrived. However, I had never been the mother of a boy before. For those who haven't experienced it, I'm here to tell you there IS a difference - a BIG one! Before Caleb was born I had a friend with two boys close in age to our girls. I remember talking with her on the phone one day when, in somewhat of a panicked voice, she exclaimed, "I have to go - both the boys are standing on top of the dining room table!" My first thought was, "Wow - why can't she control her boys?" Then I had one. I thought about that many times as the years passed and I was removing Caleb from high and dangerous places.  Since he was born into a family of girls, our poor boy initially had no boy toys to play with. He made his own guns, bending the girls' Barbie dolls at the waist, making their legs into gun barrels, and chasing his screaming sisters from room to room "shooting" them with their own Barbies. I once saw a definition of a boy as "a noise with dirt on it." That's pretty accurate, in my opinion.

 As he grew, Caleb ushered me into a world of spy games, Boy Scouts, Hot Wheel cars, and my only experience with taking the same child to the emergency room twice. He also taught me to always check pockets before doing laundry... in his early days I often removed rocks after hearing them beating around in the dryer. As he grew I occasionally found flash drives and pocket knives there. I never found things like that in the pockets of my girls.

Every experience with my boy was new and different than similar experiences I had with his sisters. The first day of Kindergarten for Sarah and Becca brought tears to my eyes as I left them there. But it also brought tears from the back seat as I drove away from their school with Caleb, in his very demonstrative way, asking, "Mommy, where girls?!" I quickly learned to treasure those preschool days with my boy - the one-on-one time we shared was unlike time I had spent with him before, and I soaked in every ounce of it. A few years later when it was his turn to walk into a school classroom and be left there, it was also my first time to turn and walk alone back to an empty car and drive to an empty house. Once again, the same experience, but oh, so different. Those experiences continued through the years. A second (and last) high school graduation, and dropping our son off at college felt very different than the first time. Likewise, a college graduation and move to a different city felt dissimilar to previous events.

My relationship with my boy has always been different than the relationships I have with my girls. I love Sarah and Becca in unique and special ways, and I am so thankful that God blessed me with daughters. In adulthood, they have become two of my dearest friends. But that mother/son relationship is special in its own way. Washington Irving wrote, "There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart." Author Cheri Fuller posits, “A mother’s love doesn’t make her son more dependent and timid; it actually makes him stronger and more independent. Maternal love is perhaps the most powerful, positive influence on a son's development and life" (What a Son Needs From His Mom). I look at the man who used to be that little boy I snuggled, and I see a confident, sensitive, strong man with a huge heart who follows hard after Christ. I think my job is done. 

Once again, one last time,  I am facing a familiar yet different experience with my boy - his wedding. I've done this twice before - married off children. Yet this one feels vastly different. Twice before my son has walked me down the aisle to my place at his sisters' weddings. Both of those times I had a front-row seat as each of my precious daughters made a promise and changed their names, leaving with their Beloveds, and I walked back up the aisle with their dad. The same thing will happen again in a few short months - Caleb will escort me to my seat, I will watch as he makes a promise, and a beautiful young lady will take his name. But with that promise, everything changes.

Much is said and written about a father giving away his daughter in marriage, but you don't hear much about a mother giving away her son. Even so, that's exactly what it feels like I'm doing. In the beginning God established His plan for our homes when He said, "Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife" (Gen. 2:24). Jesus found that important enough to repeat it while He walked this earth (Mt. 19:5). Consequently, when Caleb walks me down the aisle to my seat at his wedding, that's where I will stay - in the back seat of his life as a new woman takes her well-deserved place by his side. This will be a moment I've prayed for since before Caleb was born. God has been so gracious in His answer to those prayers in bringing Julie into Caleb's life. She's the perfect match for him, and I couldn't be happier to add her as another daughter to our family.  I will be the biggest fan of the newest Mrs. Stewart, and I will love and respect her from my backseat as I watch them grow in their oneness and build their new home from afar. Moreover, I hope someday Julie gets to experience being the mother of a son - Caleb's son. (We might want to all be praying for her about that.)

So, if you are there in Lubbock on "the best day ever" in October and see a tear or two drop from my eyes, you'll know the bittersweet feelings in this mother's heart. I've done it before, but it will be different this time. This wonderful, ever-changing, indescribable blessing of motherhood never fails to amaze me. 

"A teacher affects eternity; she can never tell where her influence stops." ~Henry Brooks Adams

We've all had one. A teacher who is more than just a teacher. For me, that one was Billie Jordan. I remember feeling loved by her from the moment I walked into her 2nd-grade classroom at Pine Tree Elementary School back in the fall of 1973. We were her first class of students, and the young, energetic, enthusiastic Mrs. Jordan made learning fun.

Apparently, Tracy (in its various spellings) was a popular name the year I was born, and four of us with that moniker landed in Mrs. Jordan's 2nd-grade class together. In order to easily distinguish us and avoid confusion, Mrs. Jordan announced on the first day of school that she would be calling  us by our last names. From that day forward, we were Meadows, Hinson, Smith, and Moore - names we continued to call each other for the next 10 years of school.

Mrs. Jordan cared deeply for her students. The summer after leaving her 2nd-grade classroom, I had surgery on my hand in a neighboring town. It was an hour's drive one-way, but Mrs. Jordan drove to visit me in the hospital. To an 8-year-old little girl, that made an impression. What made an even bigger impression was how she did the same thing the following summer, when after 3rd grade I had the second part of that surgery.

I can't really put my finger on a specific thing Mrs. Jordan did in 2nd grade to earn the place in my heart as my favorite teacher ever, because it wasn't just one thing. It was how every day she loved, and taught, and cherished us all - her kids - in her classroom. Mrs. Jordan gave me the only paddling I ever got in school. It happened one day as we lined up to go to the library, and she asked us not to talk. Evidently, Hinson and I had something very important to discuss, so we ignored Mrs. Jordan's instructions. She pulled us both out of line and gave us each one whack with her paddle. I had always wanted to please her, and that broke my little 2nd grade heart!

After moving on to 3rd grade and beyond, I would take every opportunity in elementary school to go by and visit Mrs. Jordan - sometimes after school on the way to the bus, or maybe before school if I arrived early. She would always ask about my life, my current teacher, my family, and even my pets. She always acted as though she had been waiting for me to return, and she was so glad to see me. But I eventually left elementary school, and my interactions with Mrs. Jordan became less.

In 1986, tragedy struck Billie Jordan's life. Shortly before Christmas that year, her husband's parents were returning her two young children home from a visit when they were involved in an automobile accident. All four of them - Billie's in-laws and both of her children (a son who was 10 and a daughter who was 5) were killed instantly. I cannot even begin to imagine enduring such grief. Billie did so with such grace and faith. God blessed her and her husband with two daughters in the years that followed, and a Facebook post by Billie in 2012 summed up her attitude about enduring such tremendous loss. She wrote, "To lose a child is the most devastating thing that can happen to a parent, but to lose a child during the holiday season multiplies that fact a thousand times over. I so vividly remember, there were little packages under our tree... daily, things came in the mail we had ordered... and a little flag Ashley had made and put on her door in a five-year-old's handwriting, 'SANTA, I HAVE BEEN VERY GOOD!'  Brent's Christmas list setting beside his bed listing the things he was going to buy each of his friends... I will never fully understand why things like this happen, but I believe with all my heart that God has a plan... Every single moment of every single day I am in awe of how out of such tragedy could come such blessings. There are so many things I do not understand, but I do know our God is an awesome God."

The following year I became engaged.  Needing someone to help me plan and organize my wedding that was scheduled for January 2, 1988, I called my old 2nd-grade-teacher. She was excited and happy to help me with that - she told me it would be a nice distraction during the painful holiday season. I treasure the memories I have of running wedding errands with Mrs. Jordan. She kept telling me to call her "Billie," but that was a hard transition to make. We had a lot of laughs through that time, but also a lot of serious conversations about love, and life, and serving God through it all.  Billie single-handedly kept things running smoothly on my wedding day. I was sick with bronchitis and laryngitis that day, and I felt awful. But Billie was there constantly cueing me to smile, or walking up behind me with wisdom like, "Enjoy this - it only happens once!"

Billie Jordan passed from this life yesterday. We had kept up with each other through Facebook, but I had not seen her in many years. Even so, when I heard of her passing, I felt such sadness. Because of Mrs. Jordan, a little girl who dealt with the insecurities of childhood felt loved and special in a public school classroom. She taught me to love learning, that education was something to get excited about, and that a teacher can have a major impact for good in a child's life, extending even beyond the classroom. And through her great tragedy, Billie exemplified how to handle unspeakable grief with a deep trust in God, and that sometimes the way to get outside of that grief is by reaching out to help others. I loved Billie Jordan. And I know countless others like me loved her, too. She was special, and this world is less without her in it.  How blessed I was to have been one of those who was loved by her.

"To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart." ~Phyllis Theroux

I still have them all, stored away in a box on a shelf in my closet. They range from the dates of September 1986 through December 1987. Some are cards commemorating holidays like Christmas. Most, though, are letters written in blue ink on light blue stationery. This box - these hand-written memories - are the thoughts that flowed from the pen of a handsome young man who lived in a different city as we exchanged our hearts through correspondence. His penmanship wasn't the best, but I didn't care. The letters between us ended because we moved in together as husband and wife. However, we really got to know each other through those letters. I treasure them still. 

Another box in another closet contains various other letters. Some are from my Granny. She would write to me after I got married and moved away. Most of those letters contain news of family and friends, things that happened that week in my hometown, a running commentary on the weather, and Granny's latest maladies, all written in her enviably beautiful script. She invariably ended those letters by telling me how much she missed me, and how she hoped I could come visit her soon. They were simply signed, "Love, Granny." 

That box also contains one letter from my daddy. As best I can remember, it is the only letter he ever wrote to me. I had asked him for some Bible class material, and he had gathered it up to mail to me, enclosing a letter. It's short - only a paragraph - written in his unique, choppy longhand. He ends it with, "I'm proud of you. Love, Pop." As I read those words in his handwriting, I can hear his voice. I will never be able to part with that small notepad-sized penciled letter - a tangible piece of him.

In addition to those, I have other various letters I've saved through the years from friends. Each one contains an undeniable link to the personality of the writer - each one's distinctive scrawl. They also all speak to the uniqueness of each relationship. 

I love handwritten letters. I always have. My first experience with this came in fourth grade when I was assigned a pen pal in Leeds, England. My childhood correspondence soon grew to include my first and best friend from next-door who moved away. I wish I still had some of those letters!

Unfortunately, hand-written correspondence has pretty much become a thing of the past. Replaced by more efficient high-tech methods, most people would think it's crazy to hand-write a letter when you can communicate instantaneously through email, text messages, and social media instant messaging. Why would I "waste my time" in that way? I can think of lots of reasons...

Only a handwritten letter shows the true emotion of the writer. When I hold a letter, I feel a connection with the author, observing the familiar curves of their script, the smudges on the paper, perhaps even a stain of coffee or chocolate that trickled onto the composition during its creation. I can visualize the writer sitting on their couch, or perhaps at their desk, thinking of me while sharing their thoughts. Then, imagining them thoughtfully folding the stationery, placing it (along with some of their very essence in the DNA that it contains) in an envelope on which they write my name and address, then sending it to me. That's certainly more special and personal than any text emoticon can ever hope to be.

This week, I received the most precious letter ever. When I retrieved the mail from our box on Tuesday, I saw an envelope that immediately made me smile. It was addressed to "Mimi and Pappy," and the return address sender was "Lydia." Her mommy had helped her write the addresses, but everything else was pure Lydia. I opened it carefully, pulled out a letter to Pappy and handed it to him, then sat down to consume a letter that began with, "Dear Mimi,". It was simple, written in a right-handed six-year-old Kindergarten print. But, oh, how special. Two short sentences, but a letter I will treasure always.

It makes my heart happy to think of this new stage of life with my oldest grandchild. We converse through FaceTime weekly, but to now be able to correspond with her adds another layer to our bond. What Lydia (and my other grandchildren) don't know yet is that I've been writing to them since before they were born. Each one has their own journal where I correspond with them on a regular basis. (I did this same thing for my children.) Someday, I will give them their "Letters from Mimi," where they can read and learn about our unique journeys together as Mimi/grandchildren. 

Until then, I will relish the letters that arrive in my mailbox, joyfully answering each one with a return post. I hope they will bring the same sense of joy that has been brought to me. Now I must put away this impersonal keyboard - I have a letter to write. 

"Old places fire the internal weather of our pasts. The mild winds, aching calms, and hard storms of forgotten emotions return to us when we return to spots where they happened." ~Siri Hustvedt

Earlier this week, I drove to my hometown to babysit one of my grandchildren who moved there with his parents recently. It was a brisk morning, and I bundled Noah up, put him in his stroller, leashed up little Brinkley, and headed out for a morning walk. I've done this a few times now with Noah, but it's not a strange or new neighborhood to me. The familiarity of those particular asphalt streets, the hills and curves they form, the nearby park, the houses we passed, the smell of fallen leaves - all of that felt as intimate to me as my own skin, bringing to mind a flood of childhood memories.

My growing up buddies - Traci, Donna, Kim, & Kevin

In March of 1967, when I was one-year-old and my brother was three, my parents bought a brand new home in a new development.  As the neighborhood grew, the homes filled up with other families like ours - young couples with children our ages.  Some families came and went, leaving me with only fleeting memories. But others, like us, stayed for the duration of our childhoods. 

Clinton Street was a great place to grow up. Our block, along with the parallel street (Buckner) and the shorter, perpendicular street which connected the two (Hale), was separated from the larger part of the neighborhood by a busy two-lane road. This isolated us until we reached the age when our parents felt like we were old enough to cross the busier road. For me, that freedom came incrementally, first being allowed only as far as the Werner's mailbox (three houses down), then to the end of the street, before finally getting old enough to cross the chasm of that busy, dangerous road. I don't remember how old I was before I reached that pinnacle, but at least into my double-digits. Because of these physical limitations, our Clinton/Hale/Buckner gang were a close knit bunch.

I've been back many times since leaving home. But never like this - pushing my grandchild's stroller  down the same streets where I used to play . . . in HIS neighborhood. As we walked, I told Noah about the houses I remembered. The red brick house, where our friends Mark and Traci lived. Theirs was the "cool house" in the neighborhood - the only one with a trampoline, cable TV, a pool table, AND a swimming pool! Traci had a a dachshund named Mandy who celebrated birthdays with parties. My dog, Tramp, was always invited. 

 As Noah and I progressed down the street, I told him about the other families - I knew the names of everyone who lived on our street back then. Mrs. Werner (remember - the mailbox three doors down) was my first piano teacher.  The family next door to us had four children, and their oldest, Kim, was my first and best friend. I remember during my preschool years watching Captain Kangaroo and Sesame Street each morning, then asking my mother if I could go ring Kim's doorbell and ask her mother if she could come over to my house to play. We played a lot - inside both of our houses, and outside as well. The small ditch between our houses served as a perfect river for our Barbie boats after a heavy rain. 

Kim, Traci, and I would often go up in the "woods" behind our houses, climbing the "red dirt hill," and exploring the trails back there. One time we found an injured rabbit. We named him Brer Rabbit, and Traci took him home with her to nurse him back to health. (We knew her parents were the most likely to let her keep him.) Unfortunately, Brer Rabbit didn't make it, so we took him back to the woods to carefully bury him, complete with a tearful funeral. 

Then, there were the kids from "around the block," on Buckner. These were mostly my brother's buddies - Karl, Steve, Lee, and Bubba. They played a lot of "street league football," built bike ramps like Evel Knievel, and lots of other dangerous things that boys do. One of them (you know who you are) was the "Eddie Haskell" of the neighborhood - he tended to pick on us younger ones, but was always very polite and respectful to adults. I can still hear him saying, "Hello, Mrs. Meadows, how are you?" to my mother, all while planning his next prank for later the same day.  

The neighborhood park was on the restricted side of the large road, so I didn't venture there without my parents until I was older.  But I remember riding bikes as a family and going there to play sometimes in the long summer evenings. (Yes, even my mother rode a bike back then.) The walking trail that is accessed by the same street where the park is was frequently the site of walks I would take with my daddy - he helped me collect leaf samples there when I was in Mrs. Strohsahl's high school Biology class, and one of my favorite memories of him was the time it snowed and we walked down there together, just the two of us, in the quiet of a winter wonderland.  My own children played in that same park when they would visit my parents as children. They also played in the same back yard where Kim and I transformed my daddy's rock garden into a mountain range for our Barbies, and his fish pond into a lake. 

And now, my grandchild lives in that same neighborhood, a short mile from where I lived when I was his age. I remember riding my ten-speed powder blue bike down the street where he lives on a regular basis when I was old enough to cross that wide, dangerous road. If twelve-year-old Tracy could have seen into the future, she would have been blown away by that!

Most of the houses in that neighborhood have different residents now. And most of the parents of the kids I grew up with have passed from this life. But they all live in my memory as I walk those streets once again. I can see them all in my mind's eye, even down to the vehicles they drove.

And it makes me wonder about Noah . . . will he come back here in 50 years, push his grandchild down these same streets, and talk about the memories he has of growing up here? I hope he has the same kinds of fun that I did, even though so much has changed in our world since then. Sadly, I can't imagine letting children go off into the woods alone these days, or even having the run of the neighborhood the way we did back then.  But I hope he has friends down the street, and plays freeze tag with them in the summer until it gets dark. And I hope he remembers walks with his Mimi down to his great-grandma's house, listening to me ramble about bottle rocket wars we had in the middle of the street, and the time that one of the neighborhood boys pulled up the entire brick sidewalk my daddy had built looking for roly polies. (Don't ever do that, Noah.) Kristen Hannah wrote, "Home is part of us. It's in the scars we have on our knees and elbows, in the memories that surface when we sleep. I don't think you can ever really leave." I felt that profoundly this week.