She was the fifth child in a family of ten. She never talked about her father, but she had her mother's laugh. When she was twenty, her country asked for women to aid in the war effort. The handkerchief went on and she flexed her muscles like the riveters on the poster. The man she loved was across the sea. Her family was left far behind on the farm in South Dakota.
War ended and plans for the future were made. Her husband's initials were EGG, so it seemed only fitting that they would gather chickens and make their living from their eggs. One daughter came. Then another pregnancy. She was bigger with this one. Doc finished delivering a precious baby boy. As he washed his hands to leave the nurse called him back. "I think we have another one!" Twins. A boy and a girl. In her shock and fatigue she cried out, "but I don't want another one!"
It got harder. She steeled herself. Her husband had to fight for his income and he became bitter at how his intellect was spoiled on a farm, picking up eggs from chickens. He could have been so much more.
One last child. One more daughter. She didn't have much of herself to give to each child and her husband was short on affection. So the years passed and she was stoic. Attending only to the things that were necessary. Her only outlet for her creativity was her sewing. She taught herself to crochet. Eventually, as the children were old enough to help on the chicken farm, her husband had more time to himself. He developed a passion for woodworking and she joined him in painting the intricate toys.
The oldest got married. Then the boy, who went off to Germany with his new wife. Her husband had taught her son how to type so he would see no active duty. This was a relief. Another daughter married, and another. The son moved back home. It was too hard being a repo man for Ford. He wanted to try his hand at farming.
Grandkids came. Girl, girl, girl, girl, and finally a boy. Her son gave her a grandson. His name meant beloved. And he was. More grandchildren came. It was hard to pour herself out for each one. It was easier to hold her affection in as opposed to give it away. But eventually the years wore her down and she began to see that everything was racing by her. So she slowed down. She developed more patience. She devoted herself to the things she enjoyed. She began gardening. Beautiful flowers. She sewed quilts. She made afghans for all 13 grandchildren as they graduated school. She smiled and sang. She had a lovely voice.
Then came the great grandchildren. There would be 32 in all. Her husband would live to see 28 of them. The beloved grandson gave her four great grandsons. They lived near her and would visit with her every day. She lost two daughters to cancer. She lost all her siblings. But she never lost her spirit or her smile. And one day, with her remaining daughter by her side, she put her head back for a short nap and left it all behind.
She was named Dorothy Grace. Her husband called her Dot. I called her grandma.
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