She would be 100 this year. I think of her almost every morning, especially since I have moved to this farm. My Grandmere was one of the most important people in my life. Thinking of her, especially when I am hurt or troubled bolsters me, makes me shake the whiny, pouty child from my woman frame and put on my big girl boots. I think of how she grew up, raised by a loving sister 10 years older, a bachelor father and a stern governess but no mother. Her mother died in childbirth. How must a girl feel to lose a mother and never know the touch of her hand or the sound of her voice? And yet to become a mother, a lover of life, such a zestful and adventurous woman.

My Grandmere, was a maker of things, a gardener, a seamstress, a knitter, hooker of rugs, and needlepoint, and all things handmade. She loved beautiful clothes and fabrics and was known for her style and design sense. She was tough and strong and good at sports. She was a worker and she was steady, and sure footed and the root of our family. She was a mystery and had secrets. She spoke her mind, but I think she also bit her tongue.

I have always revered my Grandmere. She is why I chose to be a gardener all these years to make it my vocation and my avocation. She is why I am an artist, a maker of things, things created by hands, and heart and work. She showed us all the joy in the doing. When I think of when I am at my most authentic self I realize I am when I am doing things that connect me with her.

When she died, and my family asked if I would read at her memorial service. I obliged. Readings were chosen and assigned to family members. One morning I wrote this and sent it to my Dad wondering if it might go into the program at her service. My parents asked me if it might be read instead. My sister read it at her service:

In Memory of my Grandmere

Helen Vann CatlettOctober6-1916-July6 2014

Arranging a bowl of flowers in the morning can give a sense of quiet in a crowded day like writing a poem or saying a prayer

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

It is morning.
In my sink a bunch of nasturtiums,
gathered for the lazy susan
on my dining room table
They remind me of you
their colors, laughter and sunshine
My garden cannot be without them.
They knit everything together
hiding the rough and bare spots
Such easy guests
They ask for no special treatment.
Walkway greeters and salad surprise
not sweet citrus but peppery bite
Those knobby wrinkled seeds
find purchase in the worst of soil.
Grow where you are planted.
I think of your hands
Knuckles of nasturtium seeds,
Flashing and clipping
Pruning right at the growth point
Dancing through sinks of blooms and blossoms
Typing letters on your old Royal
Flourish of the handwritten signature
Efficient, and capable,elegant
Strong hands
Hand over hand
on the wheel of an old orange truck
Hands to snatch you from danger
To ease an anxious child's mind
Hands held by those hands
To french-braid so tight and true
that your slippery hair
stays out of your eyes
far past lunch-time
or the riding lesson
or the long trip home
Tender hands
that hold a canary for its bath
Or pick french strawberries
and never bruise
as a treat for breakfast
Humble hands
that follow through
Jobs like weeding
are best done by hands
One weed at a time
Into the bucket
leaving no work for others
to come and finish for you
Done like a little red hen
Then at the 5 o'clock hour
Scrub the dirt and itch away!
Toss back your head and laugh
with your clean hands.
Shiny nails, properly polished
A certain shade of coral
To find the one place
a dog loves to be scratched
with ice cooled fingers.
Place the linen napkins.
Light the candles
And spoon out your offering
to the hungry and the happy.
When I last saw you
in your soft clothes, sleeping,
Your hands lay open
palms upward in offering,
as if cupping
aNight Blooming Cereus.
Letting its scent
fill your soft green bedroom
Love is a verb.
You used your hands
to show and share
the love you gave
and how you cared.