Legacy

How many lives does a person touch in eighty-six years?

I arrived at Aunt Vickie’s house for Grandma’s birthday party. The table, adorned with dainty teacups, quaint dishes and napkins glittering in beaded rings, beckoned me with the inviting atmosphere of an old-fashioned tea party. The fragrance of fresh-cut autumn flowers wafted up from elegantly crafted arrangements sprouting from vases carved from pumpkins.

I was ushered into the living room where a host of Grandma’s friends and family gathered to chat. After everyone arrived, we were all seated at the table where seventeen women introduced themselves and explained their relationship to Grandma. Daughters and granddaughters, friends and friends of friends, all who knew and loved Grandma and had been influenced by her in one way or another.

Four lovely ladies, a mother and her three beautiful daughters who were friends of Aunt Vickie’s served us our meal. The first course consisted of elegant tea sandwiches. Chicken salad, fresh and tangy, sat between triangles of whole wheat bread. Crescents of white bread were graced with a magnificent egg salad filling. Finally, crisp cucumbers nestled in a blanket of cream cheese between rectangles of white bread. Along with our sandwiches, we each drank our choice of herbal teas in our delicate teacups.

When we finished our sandwiches, our servers brought us the second course: scones, both plain and with cranberries. An assortment of toppings waited to adorn our scones—Devonshire cream and lemon curd, and homemade strawberry, peach and plum jellies.

After we’d eaten our fill of scones, Aunt Vickie announced one of the reasons she’d wanted to host this party. After the death of a friend’s mother-in-law, the friend said she wished her mother-in-law could have been to the funeral so she could hear all the wonderful things said about her. Aunt Vickie wanted Grandma to hear all about the lives she touched, so she asked Grandma’s family and a few close friends to write a note or letter to her, to be shared at the party.

Over thirty letters arrived.

In the interest of time, only the letters from Grandma’s children plus a couple others were read aloud.

We all listened in rapt silence as Aunt Vickie and Aunt Sherri took turns reading the letters aloud, each epistle expressing the personality of the person who wrote it. Poetry, eloquent essays, bullet-pointed lists and heart-felt letters all blended together to paint an exquisite portrait in memories of the life and family Grandma built over the last eighty-six years.
Memories of Grandma’s hospitality, as she invited her children’s friends into her home, becoming sometimes more of a mother to them than their own mothers, then continuing the tradition with her grandchildren’s friends.

Memories of great-grandchildren and nieces and nephews as they snuggled with Grandma on the couch.

Memories of daily family devotions that instilled in her children the value of a lasting relationship with, and continuous dependence on, God.

Memories of baking bread and having dinners promptly at six o’clock every evening, meals that were wholesome and savory for all, no matter how hard she’d worked all day.

Boxes of Kleenex were put to work dabbing at smeared mascara as we heard about the beauty of Grandma’s hands—hands that worked hard but never complained; hands that baked bread and sewed dresses, prepared meals and wiped away tears, made crafts and held her Bible. Hands that nestled, fingers entwined, into the hands of the man she loved for over sixty-two years until Grandpa went to wait for Grandma in their Father’s house.

Grandpa, the man to whom Grandma waved good-bye when he went to war, and welcomed home with open arms when he returned. The man with whom she raised eight children, through the hard work of life on a farm, and through multiple geographical changes. The man whose love, combined with hers, built a home where every child felt safe, cherished and secure, and who now pass that love on to their own children and grandchildren.

Reading those letters could have continued well into the night, but dessert awaited us. We all filed into the kitchen where a chocolate fondue fountain awaited our pleasure, flowing with pure, creamy Belgian chocolate.

Plates upon plates of treats filled the table: fruit—strawberries, raspberries and blackberries, bananas, kiwis and mangoes; angel food cake and rich brownies; rice crispy treats and marshmallows, all waiting to be smothered in the drizzling chocolate and savored by the guests.

Finally, as we ate our dessert, Grandma opened her presents. Apparently, Aunt Vickie told people “she likes candy,” so along with several keepsakes and other gifts, Grandma opened box after box after box of chocolates. It won’t surprise any of us who were there if she has enough chocolate candy to last her until she’s eighty-seven.