Memories of my grandma

I didn't have to work today (although I did have to go to the hospital for a meeting at lunch that lasted an hour), so I used the afternoon to clean the downstairs. Since I had a little extra time before Hubby gets home, I thought I'd make a loaf of bread. I just checked the dough, and yeasty smell of the bread along with memories of my Grandma hit me in the face like a ton of bricks.

My Grandma, my mom's mom, was and still is one of my favorite people ever. Her husband, my Grandpa, died before my parents even met, so she is the only grandparent I have ever known on that side. She and Grandpa M were both Czech and grew up deep in the heart of Czech country in Texas; she spoke the language fluently, grew up on a farm, and even gave birth to her first child out on a farm. My grandparents moved to College Station before my mom was born and raised their little family there. They were strict Catholics and in spite of this were only blessed with two children. My mom was born almost ten years after my uncle, so my Grandma considered Mom her little miracle. Grandpa M died unexpectedly of a heart problem in the early 1970s, and my Grandma never remarried. For her, he was it, but the entire time I knew her, she never seemed sad or discontent with her life.

My main memories of Grandma revolve around the kitchen. She was a good Czech woman and knew how to bake the most amazing creations all from scratch. Her kolaches were beyond anything I've ever eaten to this day! I remember her making bread in the kitchen and showing me all the steps; she even used to pinch off little pieces for her grandkids so that we could make our own loaves. Of course we didn't do everything correctly, but somehow Grandma's loaves were always the imperfect ones. I seriously didn't figure out for years that she switched them when she handed them to us! I know that my love of baking comes from her.

When I was around twelve, Grandma went to the hospital for routine gallbladder surgery. She had a massive stroke while she was there and was never the same. When I hear the word "Grandma," I flash back to her before the stroke because it's too painful to think about how changed she was afterwards. She passed away several years later, but I still miss her. Hubby and I each have a grandparent that we were really close to who died before we met and who we wish could have met us; I know she would have loved him as much as the rest of my family does.

Like I said earlier, Grandma was a strict Catholic and raised her children Catholic as well. My mom came to Christ when she met my Dad in the mid 1970s, and I know that they both preached Christ to Grandma multiple times after that. She told them that she believed but that she kept going to the Catholic church because it's what she knew and because she didn't want to upset her family. After her stroke, she came to live to us, and I remember reading aloud a passage about salvation to her and my sister one night, praying the words meant as much to her as it did to me. When she passed away, we held her funeral at the Catholic church where my grandpa is buried out of respect to her family. To this day, I still do not know if my Grandma believed, but I am full of hope that I will see her again one day.

In the meantime, I'm going to back and check on my bread. If I want to keep at least a piece of her legacy, I need to ensure I can make a decent loaf of bread ... even if I use some help from a machine.