One more gathering with Grandma ... this time, to say goodbye

Madonna Nolan Cussans

10. 29.1918 - 1.13.2011

How do you say goodbye?

I've been struggling with that question for days. For months. I've been working on this blog posting since before Mother's Day. I type. I delete. I type. I delete. Nothing I write seems to do justice to the amazing life of my 92-year-old grandmother.

She died on January 13. And because she lived in northern Michigan with all its precarious weather, we decided to nix a traditional memorial service and opt for a summer celebration of life. She would have liked that. Her home, nestled on Crystal Lake, hosted many family gatherings over the years. So it seemed fitting that we all would meet for one last family reunion at her home.

What I didn't realize is how hard it would be to face the fact that she won't be there with us.

It's been a strange mourning process. She died in January, but because we haven't had any formal goodbye, I don't think I've fully embraced the fact that she won't be sitting at her kitchen table, reading the paper, waiting for us to arrive.

On Saturday, I will have my chance to properly mourn the fact that my grandma is gone, but also to celebrate her life. And it was quite a life ...

She was so many things: a farmer's daughter, a World War II nurse, a Purple Heart recipient, a wife, mother, sister, aunt, friend, business owner, amateur artist, a collector, a cook, a volunteer. She was kind, generous, calm, caring. She was my grandma.

She liked having her family around. When we visited, she didn't just sit around. She walked in the lake with us. She took us to Sleeping Bear Dunes. We went to art fairs. We were her focus.

In a way, I'm ready. I am ready to give this special woman a fitting farewell. Her life was important, and we should recognize it, reflect on it and, yes, celebrate it. She was 92. She lived a long, good life. It was just the last two years that hadn't been her best, but she didn't suffer at the end. For that, we are thankful.

And yet the kid in me, who remembers all the good times spent with her on Crystal Lake isn't ready to let go of her grandma.

One more game of Old Maid. One more swim in the lake. One more laugh till you cry. One more shopping trip to Frankfort. One more homemade batch of applesauce. One more dinner at the Hungry Tummy. One more road trip to Illinois. One more Thanksgiving with her stuffing. One more back scratch. One more walk downtown. One more Fourth of July celebration. One more letter in the mail. One more hug.

One more goodbye.

For more about my grandmother: http://record-eagle.com/obituaries/x71343265/Madonna-Cussans

Instant friends forever: A bond that spans a generation

I wasn't sure what to expect when we arrived in Tennessee. I knew Katie and I would pick up where we left off. The bag of Doritos was waiting. Our friendship is comfortable that way. We know each other so well, our distance in miles has never really made an impact. We still laugh the same way we did when we were teenagers. And we can as easily delve into more serious conversations, too.

I worried more about our daughters. We would be there for five days, and I wanted them to get along. I wanted them to find friendship in each other. I knew it might take some warming up, but I hoped they would find each other.

What I wasn't prepared for is how quickly they embraced. On the ride from the airport, the giggling began. And it didn't stop the entire visit. They spent endless hours together and never seemed to get tired of each other. They were a sight to behold. They were silly, helpful, loving and sweet. It is a visit none of us will forget. Tatum already is asking when we can go back — when will we see her new BFFs again.

Teaching Our Daughters the True Meaning of BFF

To my kids, she is Aunt Katie. She’s been that since the congratulations gift she sent when Carter, our 10-year-old, was born. She signed the card Aunt Katie, and it just seemed right. To me, she’s been a nearly life-long friend. We met in kindergarten, but our friendship didn’t start then. We lived in the same neighborhood, but we were an unlikely pair. She was curls, frills and all girl. I was a big-wheel riding, tree-climbing tomboy. We were in Brownies together, and we were not friends. We fought often. One day, when we were about 8 years old, the tension boiled over and we were ready to throw down in my driveway. She called me an a_ _hole. And even though I was the tomboy, I was scared of her. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, in fourth or fifth grade, we came together, and once we did, we were inseparable. I can’t even count how many hours we spent together. In the summer, it was all day, every day. I jumped on my 10-speed and cruised to her house and I stayed there all day. We made extravagant breakfasts and divine lunches. Her house always had the better food supplies. I ate Little Debbie snacks by the box full. And she always saved the Doritos for me. Oh, I love Doritos. We shared clothes, and she tried her hardest to help through my years of bad hair days — as hopeless as they were. At 16, her parents took us to Daytona Beach. We had our own room, and we had the time of our lives. We'll just leave it at that. In high school, we traveled in different circles. I ran track and cross country. She was a cheerleader and dated a football player from another school. Our friendship was different, but still we were there for each other. Today she’s the friend I call first when something goes right. She’s also first to know when life gets hard. She was nearly the first to know when I was pregnant, the first friend on the list to call when both of my children were born. And she is the friend that will honestly tell me if my “butt looks big.” She moved to Tennessee about five years ago. When she told me, I cried. I worried about our friendship. Would it last? With husbands and families, would we find time to talk and stay close? How would we see each other enough? I’m not sure why I ever worried. I think back to the day we almost physically fought each other, way back in second grade. We hated each other with a passion. But since we found our friendship, we’ve cared about each other just as passionately. It’s the kind of friendship I want my own children to experience — to find that forever friend. Tomorrow, I will fly with my daughter to visit my BFF in Tennessee. It’s a girls week. Her husband is working out of town. So it’s just me, her and our daughters: Six girls, together. We’ll do our best this week to be role models, to show our daughters the meaning of true friendship: Being there through it all, ready to laugh together and pick up the pieces, too. With a bag of Doritos in hand.