What the Good Life Looks Like

I was just a little girl yesterday, it seems.

Long, dark-blonde hair. Terrible bangs. Navy eyes. A gangly little thing.

Every summer, from the time I was a baby until I was a junior in college, I spent a couple of weeks at my grandmother and grandfather’s house.

My grandparents lived in the Mississippi Delta, and it was truly what one would call a homeland, considering tons of aunts and uncles, “aunts and uncles” (what we called our older cousins–there were quite a few), and younger cousins lived there.

My older brother and I spent many mornings watching the old cartoons on Cartoon Network. We’d eat my grandmother’s homemade biscuits or a bag of powdered donuts from the Wonder Bread Factory.

Then, we’d get dressed and head outside to play. My grandmother’s backyard was like an enchanted wonderland. A master gardener, she’d spend what little money they had caring for the many plants and flowers that grew alongside the fence.

There was a small plum tree on the side of the yard. She jarred homemade plum jelly, and it was the best I've ever tasted to this day.

In the middle of the yard sat a swing I’d lay in, listening and laughing to stories my dad would tell about his three brothers and the shenanigans they all found themselves in.

We might drive to the Sack and Save or the Sunflower for groceries, then visit my grandmother’s very best friend, my “Aunt,” with whom she spent every day. That aunt had given birth to a child late in life, so we were close to the same age. One of my favorite people to this day.

Behind them lived my dad’s best friend, my “uncle.” His daughter and I were also the best of friends. If you're lucky, that’s what cousins are, after all.

I was blessed. These people provided a great deal of shade and stability when I needed it. As my childhood fell apart, they remained.

One of those in particular was my grandfather.

We called him Airplane Charley because he told stories about inventing this thing or that. The radio, the airplane, MTV. He'd supposedly come up with them all.

He was a tall man and strong. He’d spent his married life working in other countries for a construction company because he could make three times what he made at home in the United States. My grandmother had her large Italian family, and when he was home, she had him. 

By the time I was in high school, he’d retired from construction and had gone into the electrical business. He was smart, and he was a talented musician and songwriter. I’m blessed to have a creative family.

When I was in college, I attended a school not too far away from them. Every Sunday, before I went back, my grandfather grilled a steak for me, and my grandma made her famous potatoes. I was filled with good food and even better, love.

The older I got, my grandparents seemed to stay the same, at least for a long time.

I got married and they were there.

I gave birth to my children and they were there.

We would visit and they were there.

They were there. Same house, same furniture, same town, same people.

They were there.

Until one of them wasn’t.

I’ll never forget the day I received the phone call telling me my grandmother was gone.

I’d recently moved about an hour away from her, and all she talked about was coming to visit.

She never got the chance.

We thought surely my grandfather wouldn’t make it long without her. In fact, the first year, he had a heart attack on the day she died.

But a year turned into a decade. He lived alone with little help.

The man is immortal, we always said.

Until he wasn't.

In 2024, my grandfather passed away. It was not unexpected, but it was sudden, and I was devastated.

After the funeral, when it was time to head home, I drove past my grandparents' old house one last time. 

I knew that we were not keeping it and that, like so many other things that have been stolen from me this decade by time and change, it would soon be nothing more than a memory. 

And as I drove away, I thought about being a little girl, how fast it had all flown by.

You blink and your life is halfway over.

I thought about a conversation I had with my mother-in-law the other day, where she said she hoped she had “ten good years” left. I can’t imagine what it’s like to get to the “end,” and to know it’s coming faster than you ever imagined.

But here’s the thing: we’re all actually at the end, every second of every day.

We never know when we might draw our last breath.

This decade has made us all realize that a little more, I think.

So while I have that breath, I plan to use it wisely.

Forgetting the old…

Putting on the new…

Loving my neighbor…

Caring for the widow and orphan…

Loving my Earth…

Respecting my elders…

Honoring my parents…

Valuing my life and the blessings I’ve been given.

If you ask me, the good life looks a whole lot like being grateful, despite the hurts, habits, and hang-ups that come with being human. 

It looks like remembering the little girl who once thought of her grandfather as immortal and her grandmother as a saint.

It looks like choosing to believe she will see them both--and myself--again.