She loved her family. She thought her granddaughters were the most perfect gift from God that ever graced her life…. or anyone’s life in her estimation. She loved to laugh and hug and wear dresses that were soft pastels in pinks and pale powder blues with accent clip-on earrings and a pearl necklace. And the last thing that I ever remember her saying to me before she died at the too young age of 62 was; “Didn’t we have fun together!”
And it was fun. She had an infectious affection and my friends took over when I drove away to college in Tennessee and paid her frequent visits. Maybe part of it was the hope for one of her tasty, comfort-food meals, but I don’t think so. She loved to talk but my friends found out that she also like to listen. And a good listener is irresistible!
She didn’t think she could cook. I’ve tried to figure that out, but I can’t. I realize that her own mom could lay a table filled with mouth watering southern cuisine that would make your eyes literally brim with happiness at the sight, but she had her own style and it was just as good in its own right! I would practically kill to have a bowl of her warm banana pudding at this very moment and she is the only person this side of the Atlantic that I knew could make delicious and perfect Yorkshire pudding. I often like to picture in my mind the pleasing experience of lounging on our brown naugahyde sofa in the den watching old movies and smelling supper cooking 20 feet away in the open kitchen. It might have been her own recipe of goulash or salmon croquets, spaghetti or maybe the old girl scout “hamburgers in foil” recipe. And then we would eat at our little flowered metal TV trays in companionable silence as we watched the screen and munched.
I bet if you asked her she would say that she really didn’t have any special talents – but again – there she was wrong. As a young woman she loved to sketch and write and would have loved to pursue either of those talents as a career if she had not been caught in the post-depression pre-WWII economy and been forced to attend a business and secretarial college at the demand of her father. She passed the love of writing, art and also literature and books to all four of the Pamela’s Girls. Well, OK… it’s mostly me and my sister, CiCi, who like to read, but both of my sister’s daughters have definitely caught the art bug - and I have to say that as for myself, the weekend afternoons that find me with paint brush in hand are happy ones, mixing an odd combination of elation and a suspicious feeling of complete ineptitude.
Pamela left her two daughters and two granddaughters with a legacy of love for family and the sweet things of life here on this earth, but most important of all was the way that she shared her faith with us. I never to this day hear the hymn “The Old Rugged Cross” that I don’t hear her sweet voice singing that song to me as she sat on the edge of my bed after our prayers at night. She prayed for us, took us to church, stood firm for God’s Word and was a faithful reader of her Bible. But the standout banner for her Christian character was that through the worst, the darkest and the most painful times of her life – the kind of times that make many stolid believers shake their fists at God and ask “Why me?!?!?” – she grew closer to His Holy presence, more humbled by His goodness to us. She sought Him with her questions and fears and found healing and peace. By clinging to Him when the storms broke over her head, she became more beautiful and more joyous as her walk on this earth continued and came to a close.
I want that. And I want to be that. And I want that for my other Pamela’s Girls. For the four of us to grasp that legacy and that blessing – the things we saw by being active observers of her walk - will be the thing that Pamela will love the most….the thing that will make her clap her hands with the cloud of witnesses above and cheer us on.
And it was fun. She had an infectious affection and my friends took over when I drove away to college in Tennessee and paid her frequent visits. Maybe part of it was the hope for one of her tasty, comfort-food meals, but I don’t think so. She loved to talk but my friends found out that she also like to listen. And a good listener is irresistible!
She didn’t think she could cook. I’ve tried to figure that out, but I can’t. I realize that her own mom could lay a table filled with mouth watering southern cuisine that would make your eyes literally brim with happiness at the sight, but she had her own style and it was just as good in its own right! I would practically kill to have a bowl of her warm banana pudding at this very moment and she is the only person this side of the Atlantic that I knew could make delicious and perfect Yorkshire pudding. I often like to picture in my mind the pleasing experience of lounging on our brown naugahyde sofa in the den watching old movies and smelling supper cooking 20 feet away in the open kitchen. It might have been her own recipe of goulash or salmon croquets, spaghetti or maybe the old girl scout “hamburgers in foil” recipe. And then we would eat at our little flowered metal TV trays in companionable silence as we watched the screen and munched.
I bet if you asked her she would say that she really didn’t have any special talents – but again – there she was wrong. As a young woman she loved to sketch and write and would have loved to pursue either of those talents as a career if she had not been caught in the post-depression pre-WWII economy and been forced to attend a business and secretarial college at the demand of her father. She passed the love of writing, art and also literature and books to all four of the Pamela’s Girls. Well, OK… it’s mostly me and my sister, CiCi, who like to read, but both of my sister’s daughters have definitely caught the art bug - and I have to say that as for myself, the weekend afternoons that find me with paint brush in hand are happy ones, mixing an odd combination of elation and a suspicious feeling of complete ineptitude.
Pamela left her two daughters and two granddaughters with a legacy of love for family and the sweet things of life here on this earth, but most important of all was the way that she shared her faith with us. I never to this day hear the hymn “The Old Rugged Cross” that I don’t hear her sweet voice singing that song to me as she sat on the edge of my bed after our prayers at night. She prayed for us, took us to church, stood firm for God’s Word and was a faithful reader of her Bible. But the standout banner for her Christian character was that through the worst, the darkest and the most painful times of her life – the kind of times that make many stolid believers shake their fists at God and ask “Why me?!?!?” – she grew closer to His Holy presence, more humbled by His goodness to us. She sought Him with her questions and fears and found healing and peace. By clinging to Him when the storms broke over her head, she became more beautiful and more joyous as her walk on this earth continued and came to a close.
I want that. And I want to be that. And I want that for my other Pamela’s Girls. For the four of us to grasp that legacy and that blessing – the things we saw by being active observers of her walk - will be the thing that Pamela will love the most….the thing that will make her clap her hands with the cloud of witnesses above and cheer us on.
Auntie J.
What a fantastic lady with a fantastic description. Beautifully described in a way helps paint a picture of the lady that gave her love as a legacy to some amazing women. A pleasure to read, I can smell the home cooking! Well done.
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