A Woman of Love

A WOMAN OF LOVE

By Paul Adams

The room fell silent as Grandma Joyce was wheeled up to the side of the casket. “Oh, Leon,” she said through tears, “you had to go and leave me, didn’t you?” Then, after one last look at her husband’s face, uttered, “I do love you.”

During the first ten years of my life, my parents both worked full-time jobs, so my brother and I would spend the bulk of our time every day at our grandparents’ house, which was just two blocks away. We would run around and play in the backyard, eating the plums that fell from her tree, or watch Disney movies and M*A*S*H in Grandma’s living room. The three residents of the house, Grandma Joyce, Grandpa Leon, and Aunt Susan, loved having us over and always made sure we were fed and cared for.

Grandma Joyce was always at the forefront of love and care for not only my brother and I, but also for every member of our extended family. She took great pains to build a personal relationship with each of us, and as a result, we all love her for it. She has kept our family together through thick and thin and has always provided a place of comfort and security wherever we go in life.

Grandma was born Gladys Joyce Bluemel on a farm in the 1930’s to a faithful Mormon family. She grew up as the oldest child in the family with two younger brothers. Her farm upbringing instilled in her a strong work ethic that would carry her for the rest of her life. She met her husband, Edwin Leon Jaeger, at the wedding of her first cousin and his second cousin. They were married shortly thereafter, and she went on to give birth to five children: Melissa, Randy, Victor, Susan, and my mother Deborah. Leon took a job as an engineer at Hill Air Force Base, which meant that he would be away for sometimes months at a time. This meant that much of the running of the household fell to Joyce, doubling her already strong work ethic. To this day, Grandma Joyce still takes it upon herself to see to it that every little detail is taken care of.

Grandma Joyce is a small frail woman whose health has slowly declined in recent years. She has short, curly, white hair, kind eyes, and an infectious smile. Many of her grandkids now tower over her, but she still calls them her “little boys.” As the years go by, she becomes less and less able to do things for herself. Although the rest of her family is happy to pick up the slack, her condition has brought her to tears on numerous occasions out of feelings of uselessness.

When I was small, I liked to spend time around her. She often worked on sweaters or quilts while I sat beside her and gabbed at her for hours on end. If I was laying in the middle of the living room floor, engrossed in a movie, she would run a cold knitting needle up my back and make me jump. Sometimes, when I was being a major pain-in-the-butt, she would take off her slipper and chase me with it. A truly terrifying experience, that. The time I spent with her meant the world to me, and even now I still see her as just as important a part of my life and upbringing as either of my parents. From her I learned good morals and values, I learned how to have a positive outlook on life, and how to see the good in other people.

Every year, our family would get together for numerous holidays at Grandma’s house. Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Pioneer Day, and Labor Day generally involved barbecues in the backyard, while Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas were celebrated with large feasts inside. Birthdays were also often held at Grandma’s house, although few outside of Grandma’s household and the birthday person’s immediate family typically attended. Grandma would spend hours before anyone ever even showed up preparing for the parties, slaving away in her kitchen, making sure everything was cooked to perfection.

One of my favorite memories of my Grandma’s house is the annual Christmas party, one of her most long running traditions. Every year, on the Saturday preceding Christmas, every grandchild and great grandchild gathers at her house for a day of fun. The only rule is that parents are not allowed to attend past the second or third year of their first child, so that the kids may be able to fully enjoy themselves at the party. Each year, she and Susan would provide a craft for us all to work on, often wreaths, Christmas sweatshirts, snowman-related items, or otherwise, teaching us a new silly song as we worked. Following this, they would bring out gingerbread men and tubes of frosting to decorate them with. It has become something of a tradition for us to compete at who could stack their frosting the highest. After a brief reprieve, dinner would be served, often pizza. The party would be wrapped up as we all gathered to watch a movie together.

When I was eleven, we moved from our house two blocks away from Grandma’s house, and settled in a new house in South Weber, putting an hour’s driving distance between us. Our visits to see Grandma became more and more infrequent. This was hard for me for quite some time, as she had been a constant figure in my life for the entire first decade. My brother and I took every opportunity we could to come down and see her. Years passed, and I still hold on to a strong relationship with her.

In the year before Grandpa's death, things became more difficult for her, as her husband Leon’s health rapidly decreased, culminating in his passing in September of 2014. As he went in and out of the hospital, and Susan spent much of the day teaching, Grandma found herself alone often. I took up the habit of calling her every day after I got home from school and giving her something to talk to. It’s funny how roles change. Years ago, she sat silently listening to me talk for hours, and now, the reverse seems to be true. During our phone calls, I don’t say very much. I just let her talk to me, giving simple responses in return. I would tell her what my class lineup of the day was. She would question me about the subject material covered, and I would give a short response. Often my response would excite her enough to tell me a bunch of things that she knew on the subject. During spring semester, I took an archaeology class. Grandma had always loved archaeology, and this class especially thrilled her to talk about.

Throughout my life, Grandma Joyce has been a constant rock and presence to me. No matter what I did in my life, she never showed anything but love and concern. That’s not to say she never got cross with me, as she often had to lay down the law if I did something really bad, but she always managed to do it in such a way that I knew that my actions hadn’t changed the way she felt about me. I was still her little boy, and I always would be. 

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