We have but one life to live...

The sun has set on another generation with the passing of Ruth Mae Sell, my maternal grandmother.

As a tribute to her, I would like to share a few remembrances of her life, and hopefully paint a small picture of who she was. No portrait ever is able to fully capture the complexity of a life, but with a collage there may be hope for a glimpse....

Ruth Mae Brown was born in Girard, Ohio, a place of which she did not talk much. Though her time there was enough to make some mark, as she adopted the Ohioan manner of speech, and always pronounced "-ow" as "-er"; so there were no pillows, only "pill-ers" and "wind-ers" replaced windows. This brought no little amusment to a six year old who was convinced that she spoke wrong, and needed to be retaught; my tutoring skills must have been lacking, as she maintained her accent....

She met her husband on a train, a handsome military man, and they were married only a short time before he was shipped off to fight in World War II. She didn't see him for 15 months. Their devotion during such a separation is an inspiration. Here is my favorite photo of the two of them back in those days:


Here she is with her family, I am thinking that with the black and white, it was awhile ago (My mom is the littlest cute one):


Easters were very special holidays, and I remember the egg hunts. Oh, the egg hunts! Here is a picture that predates my attendance, but it is a delightful shot:


Many of my memories of her revolve around food. We spent many meals at her home while growing up, and it was always an interesting experience. As a product of the depression, and of the Eastern-Mid-West, she had interesting views when it came to dinner. First of all, no vegetable ever fell into her hands but was drawn, quartered, and boiled alive until it became hardly recognizable as from which herbaceous plant it may have originally been harvested. Meat was also so cooked in a manner that would have made high priests with their burnt offerings proud. I for one always enjoyed it, since the copious amounts of spice were quite tasty, and if one looked on it as jerky rather than actual meat, all was well.

What she lacked in the ability to make meals, she more than made up in her baking skills. Her house was never without a cake, or a pan of brownies, stashed safely atop the refrigerator; where she thought (sometimes erroneously) it safe from little hands. Every Christmas season, she would begin the annual baking of the cookies, and fill up the front room with decadence of every type imaginable. We children would be allowed to go in and choose a cookie from one of the many containers, and it was like walking into a wonderland of sugar. Ah, those were the days...

It was she that first established my love of baking, which is one of the things for which I am most grateful. When my dad returns from work and we celebrate our family Christmas, I will be making our traditional Christmas breakfast rolls, which is something she made for us every Christmas.

Now my grandmother has gone to be with the Lord, and we shall all miss her. So, here is to you, Grandma, a lover of Yahtzee, reader of Victoria Holt, and the raiser of a mighty fine daughter! We love you...