Memories

It's strange. One of the people I admire the most, I truly knew the least. All the memories I have of my Grandma Monk are faded, remote, and with a bittersweet taste. I never had the chance to get to know her, but I did get to know her love.

Grandma Monk was the queen of her rowdy, Sacramento neighborhood. She was officially the mother of nine kids, and unofficially the mother of everyone else. When my dad was growing up, he says that it was rare for there not to be a visitor eating dinner with "Mama Monk". She and her husband, Gordan, my Grandpa Monk, were passionate about caring for humanity. They wanted to help solve the world's problems, and were stubborn enough to do so. Trying to win an argument with one of them would be like trying to complete one of Hercule's labors blindfolded while wearing a straitjacket.

At 5'1" my grandma did not cut an impressive or intimidating figure. However, this was the woman who could drink an entire pot of coffee and fall right asleep with her curly mop of hair hiding her face. When I first met her, I called her Grammy Leprechaun in my head. Very Irish, very loud, and magical all at once, it seems that the name was a perfect match.

When one went to Grandma for help, she made sure you got it. Your problems could range from a scraped knee to boys. It didn't matter. In the end, she would fix them all with a prayer, kiss, hug, and a sweet drink. If she loved you, there was no one in the world who could hurt you. She would take on anything for you.

However, all good things must come to an end. But, I still remember her with the utmost admiration. She taught me more than most anyone else. Living in her example is the best I can do.