My Jelly Grandma

This morning I was less than ambitious and decided to just make some toast. I topped it off with some jelly from a plastic bottle with the picture of a raspberry on the label. Compressing it up-side-down I squeezed out a ribbon of  "fruit spread", wrinkling my nose at the artificial smell that farted out of the decompressed bottle. The yucky synthetic smell was a cross between new plastic containers and strawberry Twizzler's licorice. For a moment I imagined my Grandma Anna was in the kitchen, watching me with a disappointed frown, worn hands on her apron-clad hips. I know Grandma would not be pleased that I eat crappy store-bought preserves. Nothing from the grocery store could ever rival the goodness and love that my Grandma cooked into her homemade spreads.

Grandma Anna died over a decade ago, when my children were still quite young. Although her passing was anticipated, I wasn't prepared for it. My own sorrow was stirred with anxiety knowing her funeral would be the children's first experience with death. During times like that I really missed having the support of a spouse. It would be up to me alone to usher them through the experience, all the while immersed in my own sadness. I couldn't help but think of how my Grandmother would understand my feelings. She had raised the youngest of her brood alone after Grandpa died unexpectedly.

Before I told the children I spent a few minutes trying to find the right words for telling them the news. Should I say their Great-Grandma had 'passed away', 'died', 'gone to heaven' or that she was 'with Jesus'? My mind churned as I rehearsed different explanations of death. After much angst, I decided to just give it to them straight. I called the kids to my side and simply said,

"Your Great-Grandma Anna has died."  I watched their faces for a reaction. All three of them stood quietly, watching the tears roll down my face. I quietly prayed they would understand.


Looking bewildered, my six-year-old asked,

"Was she my jelly Grandma?"

With a relieved smile I said,

"Yes. Great-Grandma Anna was your jelly Grandma."

The knot I had tied myself into unraveled as I realized the news had landed on them softly. To my relief they seemed to understand. Although we didn't see her very often, the kids knew Great-Grandma Anna for her 'uff-dah', lots of hugs and laughter, lefse, and the most amazing raspberry jelly ever created. 

When you opened a jar of her jelly it released scented memories of my Grandma cooking raspberries on the stove. I can still see a cheesecloth-lined colander sitting on her kitchen counter, holding a sieved glob of seedy dark pink raspberry pulp. The berry juice and sugar was cooked slowly, deliberately. A purple foam floated atop the bubbling liquid, splattering up the insides of the shiny stainless steel pot. When reduced, the concentrated juice emitted an extraordinary scent and produced a preserve with an intense raspberry flavor. Grandma Anna knew exactly how to cook it to perfection.  One could hold a jar of her raspberry jelly up to the sunlight and see clearly though the glass jar's burgundy lens. 

These memories of my Grandmother cooking in her kitchen, happily chattering and singing, comforted me. She was a fun, humble, kind and loving woman. I never heard her speak an unkind word about anyone or to anyone. Her strength and resilience spoke to the exponential number of hardships she had endured. At the age of three she lost her mother to cancer. She'd lived through the depression, worked hard on the farm while raising a family and experienced the untimely deaths of her husband and two of her seven children. Many times life had had been unkind to my Grandma Anna.

Years ago when I lived on the east coast, newly married and having babies, I missed seeing my family. Although miles apart, my Grandma Anna had her own way of staying connected. When my second child was born, my Mom flew out to see us, carrying with her a box full of homemade jelly. She lugged that heavy box through airport connections and held it on her lap in flight to ensure its safe arrival. Some might not understand, but to me those preserves carried with them the loving strength of my Grandmother's presence. I couldn't help but think of her as I placed jelly on the table every morning.

Even my daughter, a toddler with a limited vocabulary, was a connoisseur of jelly by the age of two. She could not pronounce "jelly", so she simply called the sweet red spread "more." It was a most appropriate name.  I remember hiding the last jar of Grandma's jelly from my husband when the demise of our marriage neared. There was NO way I was going to let him have one more drop of it. If my Grandma knew what he'd done to me she would have beat him silly with her lefse stick. That one remaining jar of jelly was MY sweet solace. It was the connection to my Grandmother's reassuring presence during long lonely days while I contemplated my future as a single mom with three children under the age of four.

 

Clearly what filled those jars was more than just jelly. 

To this day I keep an empty half-pint jelly jar

 in the kitchen windowsill. 

It's a symbolic reminder that my Grandmother Anna's spirit is ever present in my daily life. 

When life hands me sadness and trouble, 

I am confident she keeps my jar overflowing
with loving kindness and strength

 from her heavenly reservoir.

I am grateful that I will always have my jelly Grandma.