Gram – Irene North

Ninety-nine would have been a good year

On 1 November, 2021

Gram at Uncle Dave’s fishing competition July, 15, 2007.

Today would have been my grandmother’s 99th birthday. She passed away in 2011, but I still struggle with the idea that she is no longer alive and I will never see her again. As an atheist, I do not have the luxury of the idea of being with her again once I die. There is no heaven. There is no hell. Who we are – our mind, consciousness, personality, and character – is a unique combination of chemicals and neurons, which disperse once we have died.

The things she gave me

By Irene

On 11 June, 2021

In Gram

Me and Gram in the late 1970s.

When I was a child, I called her Grammy. All of my cousins did, too. As we grew older, she became Gram. All of our friends called her Gram. She is and will always be the biggest influence on my character.

The perfect pitch

By Irene

On 8 March, 2021

In Gram, Stories

Bats: L; Hits L; BA: .367; ERA: 1.97; Age: 13; Height 5ft. 0in.; Weight: 95 pounds; Position; P, 1st

I stared at the signs Stacy was showing 60 feet away. I shook her off a few times before settling in on my “go-to” pitch. I could place it almost anywhere.

Standing on the pitcher’s mound, the entire world melted away. My teammates knew I liked it quiet, so the normal cheers of encouragement were rarely heard when I was on the mound. I shut out the people screaming in the stands. It was just me, the catcher, and the batter.

Indelible moment

By Irene

On 8 February, 2021

In Gram, Poetry

I can cook now, mostly

By Irene

On 19 April, 2020

In Gram, Stories

I’m still not sure why I was home alone that monumental day, but I had graduated from setting the table for dinner to making the meal by myself.

Lorraine Schoeneberger

By Irene

On 31 March, 2020

In Gram, Women

Gram at Uncle Dave’s fishing competition July, 15, 2007.

I grabbed the softball and turned it around in my glove until my first two fingers were set where I wanted them along the seams. I focused on the placement of the catcher’s mitt, ignoring where the batter would be. My task was to put the ball in the catcher’s mitt. That’s all I looked at. I stretched back and released the ball.

Black Walnuts

By Irene

On 2 June, 2019

In Gram, Stories

A squirrel steals a black walnut off Gram’s back porch.

I placed the half-full bucket of black walnuts on the ground and took a deep breath. For Gram, it’s not so hard to carry, but I’m still little and half-full is more than enough for me. I turned around and looked back toward her back yard, full of trees, scanning the surface to see if I had missed any black walnuts.

Grandma

By Irene

On 1 November, 2018

In Gram, Poetry

The best grandma in the world.

I wrote this poem as part of my final project in my poetry class at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I turned it in on July 12, 1990. I had turned twenty-years-old seven days before. Today would have been Gram’s 96th birthday.