My husband's grandmother passed away last week.
We had just visited her during our vacation, as a part of the trip we stopped at a family reunion, planned partly to celebrate the 65 years she and his grandfather had been married.
She was a wonderful woman. She welcomed me to the family with open arms. Literally. She swallowed me in a bear hug after our college commencement ceremonies. This was the first time I had met most of my husband's extended family, a mere two weeks before our wedding. His grandmother made me feel comfortable within their family.
She called herself the weather witch, and she took responsibility for any and all weather. She apologized for the drizzle on our wedding day, and then reminded me that rain on anyone's wedding day is a sign of good luck.
I loved her like my own grandmother. In fact, she felt like my grandmother. When we lived in New York, we'd drive up to their house for holidays and sleep in the cramped back bedroom, and eat from a groaning table filled with food fixed by my husband's grandfather.
My only fault, as far as she was concerned, is that I hated playing cards. Oh, I often did, but I am a miserable card player (I really do hate playing card games). Right now, I'm treasuring those memories of her attempting to teach me how to play hand and foot.
She loved my kids dearly, and always e-mailed to ask for pictures.
I miss her dearly, and she hasn't even been gone a week. It seems slightly unreal, because I was just talking to her three weeks ago.
I'm not sure who would be designated the new family weather witch, but I'd like to apply for the position, in honor of her.