Strong Roots

A friend recently told me, " To know and share who you are you must first set the context-where are your roots? Roots are important. Sustenance comes from the roots. Support comes from the roots. And whether you like it or not, where you come from colors your entire life moving forward." 

My brother and me with Granio at our lakehouse in the Adirondacks ; one of her favorite places. 

This past week our little band of three moved our way towards my Yankee North to reunite with the O'Connells, Hansons and Blanchards. My daddy's roots. My roots. My daughter's. My grandmother, whom we lovingly called Granio, passed away last November but her memorial service was held in her home town of Westford, MA last weekend. And it was sad, and it was beautiful, and we even dared to make jokes. We knew she would scold us  for not wearing practical shoes, for bringing a sleeping baby, for having this memorial at all, and especially for crying. My father and uncle, her only children, both spoke, as did my cousin Shannon and I. There was even a sweet minister, and a few of us chuckled when he shared how she had been the organist at the local church for so long. Clearly he had never met our grandmother (it was her mother who played) because she had a real disdain for organized religion and didn't hold her tongue for those who found peace in it. 

A church organist she was not. 

Granio at the beach.

What she was was a strong, full of opinion, full of spunk, independent wild woman. She climbed trees and rode horses; loved camping and animals. She love the beach and the mountains and never felt a need to choose. She created adventures, told stories and laughed. I feel I can confidently say there was nothing she was afraid of. She was also beautiful. Beautiful curly red hair and icy blue eyes on a soft creamy complexion. She was my pen pal. The kind of grandmother who wrote several times a month, and saved every letter she received in return.  Losing her has hurt quite a lot, and I think until Saturday it still seemed pretty unreal. Throughout the year something would happen and I'd think how I couldn't wait to write her about it, or maybe call. Maeve learning to crawl, starting Wonderfully Made or my latest adventures with my cousins, brother or Adam. And then I'd cry. And I'd stuff it down, and shut it off because it hurt. Because what I want it to be is that she's too busy to take a phone call, or stop to read a letter. I don't want her to be gone. 

Her alter beneath the trees.

So Saturday was good. It was sad, and it hurt, but it was good. She picked the spot out herself, a beautiful patch of grass beneath two big, beautiful trees. The same cemetery where her parents, and many of our ancestors lay. The same cemetery that our great-grandfather used to care for, that our dads grew up playing in. That Ryan and I "drove" our dad's car in as children. A place where our family is; where our roots are. My Granio, our family's matriarch, Millie, is a woman I'm proud to have my roots in. I hope I share in her strength and sense of adventure. That I can find a way to think of her and say "I am not afraid." I appreciate the gift God gave me, my brother and my cousins in having her in my life for twenty-five years. The stories I can tell, the memories I can share. 

And when I look down at my curly-red haired girl with those blue eyes and soft creamy complexion and she tears through the house, my little wild woman; I know my Granio has never really left. I'm lucky enough to have a tiny piece of her within me, and within Maeve. 

Our roots run deep.

Maeve with my Dad.