Mamaw (my paternal grandmother) died Friday. She’d been diagnosed with lung cancer months ago, and it had finally spread to her brain, quickly taking away her right hand then entire right side then speech. Unfortunately, a combination of being so far away (it takes two full days to get from Denali to Kentucky) and having only one co-worker mean that I’m unable to attend the funeral. I wrote something to be read by my brother.
Hello everybody. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here in person; it’s easy to forget how far away Alaska is until you want to go home. If I were talking to Mamaw right now and said, “Mamaw, it’s the middle of August, and the leaves are falling off the trees, and we’re getting hard frosts!,” I can just imagine the big laugh and smile and “oh gosh” she’d give.
It’s amazing to think how different our lives have been. She grew up on a farm, spent years away at a Masonic home because the money just wasn’t there, raised four kids with hard work and not much else, hardly ever traveled outside a 30-mile radius (except to visit us, the weirdos living in crazy places like Iowa). And look at me: I lived in Tennessee, Kentucky, Mississippi, Iowa, and Ohio before I was 16; have faced no real hardships my whole life; spent four years learning about Philosophy and Music and god-know’s-what-else; and at the age of 24, I’ve lived in Europe for half a year and’ve not only been in just about every state but have spent a lot of time in the middle of nowhere in the most middle-of-nowhere ones! And I spent years running away from roots, trying to get as far away from “simple” country life and as close to high-fallutin’ art and big cities and exotic places as I could.
But I think of Mamaw, of walking in the house year after year, and I’d been living in a new place, had grown what felt at times like a whole new body, had made all new friends and seen all new things, but I walked through the car-patio door and through the kitchen and turned right and there was Mamaw, making another quilt. What number was she on then? 75? 100? 200? And she always made every piece so perfect, every line so straight, every stitch small and exact and beautiful. And she worked and worked, stared and stared, the same steps over and over.
She worked with her hands, simple work. And what was the result of all that care and repetition and simplicity? Big, beautiful, warm, comfortable pieces of caring that would make me feel at home wherever I was, whatever bed I was sleeping in, that were better than anything money could buy or that the smartest people in the world could think of or that any boutique in any fancy city could ever sell.
Mamaw found joy in small things. Quilts, crosswords, jigsaw puzzles. Baking Christmas cookies, grabbing us drinks (“Whattayou wanna drink, Miiiiles?”), watching everybody talk (but not joining in too awful much). Hummingbirds behind her window. And she worked hard without why or what for, and raised good, moral, hardworking children, including my dad, whom I appreciate more and more everyday as an usually good parent and person.
And so what I’m saying is that as I’ve grown, I’ve appreciated more and more the beauty and simplicity and love that was Mamaw’s life, and I’ve seen more and more that I’m not so different, after all. That we’re from where we’re from. And that life’s about making quilts, mostly. And Mamaw was an artist of a quilter.
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I love you all and hope that remembering how much Mamaw loved seeing her family together and healthy and just fine will remind you how good it is to simply be together, sharing time, eating food, talking about the weather on a hot August day.
I’ll be home soon! Love, Miles
