She's almost 96...

And quite possibly one of the most amazing women I've ever had the opportunity to meet. I love her. She makes me smile. She makes me laugh. She gets me.

I am the first great granddaughter of the first granddaughter of Ardith Nelson. She has two awesome kids. Those kids have awesome kids...and well...I am one of the awesome kids of the awesome kids' kids. LoL. How great is that?!

I moved out of my mom's house earlier this year. I lived next door to my great grandma for the vast majority of my life. Her home was/is a haven (much to my mother's chagrin). It is full of love. Since moving out, I think I've missed our chats. Many stories I've heard many times...and some are brand new to me. This blog is dedicated to my great grandma and her infinite wisdom.

This last Monday, we had one of our chats. We get off on tangents...and quickly lose our way. However, some of the best...saddest...most insightful stories are brought on by these tangents. Anyway...there I go on one...

My great grandma is from a family of 12. We talk about them a lot. There's one brother that is rarely brought up, and when he is, you never know what you're going to get. His name was Jonathan. Jonathan was born a "blue baby". He was born alive...he just needed a blood transfusion. He was born when grandma was "preschool" age. She doesn't remember exactly...she just remembers she was young. He only lived a few hours, but she remembers the night he was born. Her dad came outside to the kids and said, "We have a beautiful boy, but it looks like he's not going to make it."

Monday, I asked her if she remembered what Jonathan looked like. I know I've probably asked her that a thousand times, but I can never remember...or she avoids the subject. She looked at me and started to say something...but stopped. I could see the grief well up in her watery blue eyes and she said, "I remember the neighbors helping dad build a box. They lined it with fabric. And then, we just did what we did...which I can't remember now. I remember I couldn't bring myself to lean down and kiss him..." At that point, she starts to weep.

Tears aren't frequent. They are actually few and far between. The first time I saw her cry was in 2002 when my great grandpa (her husband of more than 67 years) left us for heaven.

I handed her a box of tissues, which she conveniently leaves in the TV room. I didn't know what to do...but I know I was fighting tears. I lost it when I realized the amount of pain she still feels for not kissing him.

I look at her, and I start to cry. I cry for her. For that "beautiful boy". Probably for myself in a sense. I looked at her and said, "Grandma, it seems that you had such a tragic childhood."

She looked at me and said, "That's life."

My great grandma has given me so much. More than she realizes. Hopefully, these stories will touch others like they've touched me. There are many more. She's got 96 years of stories...and I know that each one is a great one...and they all have the same underlying theme.

That's life.