With the evacuation of the Israelis from the Gaza Strip, the new Supreme Court nominee, Lance Armstrong winning a seventh Tour de France and “Brangelina” hooking up, 2005 will surely be a year to remember.
But for me, an event took place that will have a more direct impact on my life than any of those.
My grandma died.
I’ve been to journalism school. The death of an 86-year-old woman from heart failure is hardly headline news. It’s ordinary. It’s what is supposed to happen, if you’re lucky.
You’re born. You’re a parent, a grandparent, a great-grandparent. You get old. You die.
That’s the bittersweet circle of life. Her death was rather peaceful. It was not a tragedy. It was not a result of terrorism, a shooting or a grisly accident.
But that does not diminish its sadness.
She’d been in the hospital for about a week when I realized she would never come out. I’d been holding her hand and resting my head on her shoulder as she lay in her hospital bed. She was sweet and smiling. I closed my eyes and cried quietly, so she wouldn’t notice.
Then I had to get out of there.
The blossoms from the tress and bushes surrounding The Medical Center of Aurora smelled especially sweet that night. The sky was decorated with streaks of lavender, pink and peach.
I bought a bottle of milk and some cookies from the hospital. I sat under a tree on a green patch of grass and cried like a baby.
Grandma Doyle was leaving and never coming back.
I’d never known life without her. Sitting in her blue recliner in Hoffman Heights, she was a constant. You could count on her being there, reading a Louis L’Amour book. There would be a pot of strong coffee on the burner. On the counter there was a Tupperware container with cinnamon and sugar already mixed, so it was easy to make cinnamon toast.
Grandma was a farm girl. Her family homesteaded in the now-defunct town of Adena, Colo., 19 miles south of Fort Morgan. She came to Denver to be a nurse. She converted to Catholicism and married a handsome Irish man. Together they had seven boys.
Grandma worked at Gates Rubber Company, St. Joe’s hospital, and Mount Airy Psychiatric Hospital. She is said to have managed her boys with a mink glove on one had and a claw in the other, never afraid to use either one.
In her house, her shelves, cabinets and tables are still decorated with the odds and ends people have given her over time, a plate featuring Jesus wearing the crown of thorns, a few dishes with shamrocks on them, a crystal bell and pretty floral blue plates.
Paintings of horses and cowboys hang on her walls. An antique shotgun is mounted above the fireplace. It was a gift from one of her sons. Coming from a Doyle boy, the shotgun is as much a symbol of love as a delicate necklace or as a cashmere sweater would be for other folks.
Grandma was a tough old gal, with a soft spot in her heart for her children, grandchildren and her dogs. She had a folksy, funny way about her. She had silly sayings like, “That woman is as crazy as a pet coon.” Or, “I was sweating like a whore in church.”
Grandma was my connection to the past. I’ve always lived in the city, but she was my connection to farm life. I had her personal stories from which to learn about the Great Depression, like when she told me that her father bartered for food with the neighbors.
She was my connection to what life was like during World War II, when she went months without hearing about her little brother’s well-being. He had fought in the Battle of the Bulge. That wasn’t the first war she’d sit up late worrying about. She had sons in Vietnam, Desert Shield, Desert Storm and Iraq.
Without her, it’s up to me to treasure her connections to history, to remember the stories she told me, so I can someday tell them to my own grandchildren.
So while I’ll recall that during 2005, some world events occurred that will be written about in history books, my headline news will be that an old lady from north Aurora died.
Michelle Ancell is a communication specialist for Cherry Creek Schools who lives in Aurora with her husband and daughter.
