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.