Everyone has had someone in their lives that has touched them so profoundly they can’t escape their presence even in death. This muse is so powerful and palpable it’s as if they’re always walking two steps behind you. For me, this person is my grandmother, Alice, who led a hard life and meager existence as a wife and mother of 10 children, nine of whom survive today. She was a homemaker, mother, gardener, seamstress, quilter, grandmother, counselor, nurse, and friend.
Her life, hardships, and dreams have always touched me and her influence abounds in my home among the quilts on the beds, expansive flower gardens, plants in kitchen windows, and sewing supplies tucked wherever I can find space. I had always been attracted to her laugh and spirit in spite of her depressed surroundings. Alice taught me to appreciate the simple, important things of life like cooking without a recipe and talking through problems over a sink full of dishes after a big meal.
The first time I noticed her incredible influence in my life was actually after her death when my husband, three boys, and I moved to the farm where we now live. I began doing things in which I’d had no training with ease and began recalling childhood memories of times spent with Alice sewing, canning, making cinnamon rolls, pulling weeds in her garden, band-aiding skinned knees, and erasing children’s tears with just a kiss.
I didn’t recognize these patterns as originating from Alice, really, until my mom was visiting one day and mentioned all the plants I had tucked on the south-facing windows of our kitchen. She said Alice always had plants in her kitchen windows yet I couldn’t recall that myself. Mom continued saying how Alice would have felt so at home in my flower gardens as they reminded her of Grandma Eakins’ endless flower gardens (Alice's mother). I realized I’d inherited more than just a few things from Alice. Somehow moving to a farm with established flower gardens inspired me to experiment enough to maintain the bounty we’d inherited with the property and gave me enough confidence to expand it exponentially. Now I can’t imagine living without plants and gardens to tend every day.
I remember Alice’s funeral where I did my usual trick of sneaking out of the body viewing line to avoid having my final memory of Alice as that of a shell in a coffin. I didn’t cry at her funeral because I knew she would be part of me forever. The life lessons she taught me still stick to me like glue because she had a way of getting you involved with the task so you would really know how to do it.
Near our farm, there’s a road we travel into town called Alice Road that leads to an unincorporated town called Alice. Like the gravestone that marks Alice’s final resting place, that road is just a marker leading to what was once a thriving entity that was erased by a tornado years ago. Like many small towns, it dried up and only has Alice Road to remind residents it was once more substantial. There are many such places in rural America, but this one interests me because of its familiar name.
Just before her death, she was placed in a nursing home due to rapid-onset Alzheimer’s disease, which had left her confused and unable to care for herself. When I visited her in the home, she didn’t know me and I just watched the stranger sit on her bed rocking back and forth crying and mumbling as my mom brushed her hair. It was as if her body had endured too much.
After her funeral, I went back to life as usual here on our farm but her presence began surfacing everywhere more and more. Sometimes I would cry because I missed her, but often times I found myself wanting to right all the wrongs that had been done to her in her life. I felt a strange sense of urgency to really love and care for my family and get joy out of all the normal day-to-day routines. Now I know why we moved to the farm ... because Alice wanted us to be there so she could watch over us. I like that image and enjoy thinking of her up there enjoying the view.
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