By Patricia Geurds 
I opened my son’s SpongeBob Squarepants notebook and stared at the words I had written the night before. Clearing my throat, I began.
Today we say goodbye to Nana. It’s been a few days, and I am positive she is already bossing around the angels and telling God what advice to give. Keeping busy reorganizing heaven, tidying it up, alphabetizing the pantry, catching up on all the gossip, and whipping up five-course meals.
My grandmother was not the warm and fuzzy type. She was stern. She expected a lot but gave a lot in return. Her family was her world. Every Sunday was family dinner and all were invited. Full bellies, laughter, tears, and always a good debate. With a pinch on your cheek, you would be sent on your way.
To end her eulogy properly, I took the liberty of throwing some criticisms she would have made had she been there: This bad lighting makes my skin look pale. Why didn’t anyone put more rogue on my cheeks? Tricky, your skirt is too short. Uncle Jimmy should have had his wife iron his suit before coming. Why didn’t cousin Tommy shave his face? And someone should tell cousin Mary about control top pantyhose.
An immigrant from Ireland, she knew the value of hard work. She always said she could turn a penny into a dollar. One time she got a job sewing curtains at night so she could save money to buy my dad a bike. Once she bought that bike, she made him get a paper route to earn money for the family.
My mom worked the late shift as a nurse, leaving us in the care of my grandmom. We didn’t always like it. She was strict with rigid rules, and we enjoyed testing her. She would chase my brother up and down the street and catch him. With every visit, you could expect her to peel an apple with a knife in one long ribbon while gossiping about the neighbors. Dispensing advice that I rarely took, but wish I had.
Her ability to read people and situations was on point. She even accurately predicted which kids in the neighborhood would grow up to be delinquents just by watching us on the playground. She never missed a dance recital—you could hear her whistling through her fingers at the end of each dance. She attended all my soccer matches and was so loved that she and my grandfather became team mascots.
My family had a terrible car accident. She cared for me while my family recovered in the hospital. She would throw me over her shoulders and bring me up and down the stairs with a cast from hip to toe, reminding me I wasn’t allowed to feel sorry for myself. She made me feel safe. I knew no one could hurt me when she was by my side.
Stand up straight! Or suffer bad posture. Never cut your hair into bangs. A widow’s peak is a sign of beauty, never hide it. Wear a bra with support. Don’t trust girls. Date a gentleman; anything less simply won’t do. But of all the advice she gave, the most important was . . . You are not better than anyone, but no one is better than you.
I never understood what she meant until I became a mother. My daughters have learned to be confident and self-assured, but also kind and fair. Something I wasn’t, but I am grateful my daughters are.
Before my nana passed, she told me two children were quite enough. I needn’t have any more. She loved her grandbabies—bouncing them on her knee, signing to them. Sadly she didn’t get enough time to meet them all. While in hospice she pulled me close to her and whispered, “You need to have one more baby” and winked. That was the last time I saw her. A year later, I gave birth to my third daughter. Everyone says she is an old soul, possessing many characteristics similar to my grandma. Hmm?
Her strength and resilience have become a part of who I am today. As I face challenges in life I think of her and ask myself, “What would she do?” My tongue will never be quite as sharp, nor my cooking as delicious, but the lessons she taught me and the experiences we shared rooted in love and family will be her legacy. One that I am honored to pass on.
by Stephanie McCoy 
by Kelli Bachara 
by Miranda Hawkins 
