On Saturday, my family buried my grandmother. She was 87-years old and lived a seemingly simple country life. She gave me many gifts but none as great as the knowledge that hand-me-downs might be the clothes you’re given and also the story your living.

My Grandma and “Pop” celebrating a Happy Thanksgiving in 2012. They both passed this year in 2017.

I write this as her “special” grandson. The one who, all the way until her last day of dementia-laden consciousness, was recognized as, “Jeremy…he’s so sweet. He loves me,” said in her most-affectionate tone of voice. So, these aren’t the ramblings of a jaded and unloved family member. These are the observations of a grandson who threw away the hand-me-downs of unworthiness he was given to take hold of the inheritance of worth he always possessed.

For as long as I can remember, she never lived close. She was always a road trip away. Some of my earliest memories are packing in the car with my mom, dad, and brother to visit my grandma and her husband (I called him “Pop”) in some rural, small-town location. They weren’t much for the city or the people who dwelled there.

Even as a young boy I noticed the tension. It predated my existence and never really left.