Grunting and Oats

Growing up we would go to my grandma's house every weekend or what felt like every weekend.  Grandma's house felt like a safe haven.  I was allowed to eat what I wanted, when I wanted, and in any amount I wanted.  Every morning Grandma made oats, now this is not your normal 90 second microwaved oatmeal.  She cooked these on the oven and unloaded enough brown sugar and butter to spike my insulin through the roof.  Most importantly, Grandma taught me to properly hug someone, you must grunt.  I cannot think of one time I hugged Grandma without grunting, even as a 24 year old man.

I loved going to Grandma's house.  I was allowed to ride on the back of the truck as Grandpa or one of my uncles drove around the farm so we could look at the cows tobacco fields.  In her front yard there were 3 perfectly placed trees that made the best whiffle ball field any 10 year old could dream of.  Her yard had too many hiding places (if there is such a thing) for hide and seek.  My cousins lived across the street and came over every time stayed there.

Then the angels came on November 7th and took my grandma.  She is now reunited in Heaven with my daddy and Aunt Linda Faye.  The funeral was small and to my surprise I balled like a kid who had his candy taken away from him.  Three weeks later and I am still sad, knowing I won't be grunting when I hug her or eating oats anytime soon.  I am thankful for  these memories, my family, and most of all my grandma.