She was tiny, but big of heart

My paternal grandmother's real name was Louise, but everyone called her Tiny.

She lived in East Tennessee, surrounded by mountains and lore. From the time I was old enough to speak, she instructed me to call her Grandmother — quite a mouthful for a little kid. Perhaps it was her height, or lack thereof, along with the permanent nickname, that made formal titles so important to her. Perhaps it was her mountain upbringing. Perhaps it was the fact that she never made it past 8th grade.

It was the only thing she ever asked of us, however, so we didn't mind.

Grandmother's sentences always ended with an endearment, usually "hon" or "darlin'" She doted on us, and spent much of her time in her tiny kitchen, ensuring that our favorite foods made it to the table.

My grandmother lived in a doublewide trailer that overflowed with newspapers and magazines. She may not have graduated from high school, but she was a voracious reader who spent hours writing letters to the editor and clipping stories that captured her fancy. Although she lived in an area known for its number of Republicans, my grandmother was a devout Democrat until her death.

My grandfather, Delbert, had only a third-grade education, but he was an enterprising soul. He ran a limo service to and from the Johnson City airport. He owned a rambling mail route that took him through the Smokies and into North Carolina. Grandfather was known for giving rides to the mountain folk who needed to go to town. They waited for him at the post offices along his route.

My grandfather died when I was only 8, so I have few memories of him. A childhood bout with polio left him with a distinct limp. He smoked heavily and loved to tease us. Though poor, he was a generous man, even helping out his in-laws, who had objected mightily to his marriage to their daughter.

After his death, my grandmother lived in that trailer for years. My grandfather's mail route, now run by a neighbor, still provided some income. And my dad sent her monthly checks.

She raised two of my cousins after my uncle and his first wife divorced. Sometimes, over the years, they slipped and called her Mother.

Grandmother was a putterer. Even when her beloved soaps were on, she remained in motion. This drove my mother batty.

"I always feel like I should be up doing something too," she would say to my dad. "Doesn't your mother ever sit down?"

My grandmother was terrified of flying. Even so, she made numerous trips to our Texas home over the years. When I was 17, she came to stay with us while my mom and dad took a trip to Japan. She sat up all night, watching the news, petrified their plane would crash and she wouldn't know it.

When I was in college, Grandmother moved into an assisted living complex in Erwin. She liked her independence and even as she approached 80, remained active. The setting was perfect — she still lived alone, but help was nearby if she needed it.

The cancer diagnosis caught us off-guard. How could this be? She still was a little thinner, but still puttering.

The cancer proved aggressive. Within months, she required live-in care. My cousin, who also lived in Erwin, stayed with her. My dad went up for several weeks at a time. Then my uncle.

Shortly after my uncle left, my cousin had to take Grandmother to the hospital. Grandmother made it clear that she didn't want a feeding tube. If it was time, it was time. She rallied, however, after a few days on an IV. Even so, the doctor said hospice care would be necessary.

Among her many instructions, Grandmother insisted that she didn't want to be a burden on her family, that she would go into a nursing home first. After some arguing, my dad, cousin and uncle reluctantly complied.

We were all there the day Grandmother entered the hospice wing of the home. My sisters and I spent the afternoon with her, helping her to and from the bathroom. Always tiny, Grandmother was now a bundle of bones. I probably could have carried her in and out.

We decorated the room, trying to make the sterile space more homelike by bringing in lamps and pictures. I remember looking at Grandmother, so small and lost in that narrow hospital bed, and then darting from the room to cry in the bathroom.

After returning home, I asked Hubs to print the pictures taken at her 80th birthday. One was a shot of all the family, taken outside my cousin's home. I wanted her to remember that happy weekend, one of the last times we would see her healthy.

The doctor predicted a swift death. For the next several weeks, my dad went back and forth between Texas and Tennessee. Meanwhile, Grandmother became incoherent. She thought was living in a beauty parlor. She was angry with her hairdresser. Couldn't they find her a better salon?

Her doctor said the cancer had spread to her brain.

Dad told us not to call anymore, that Grandmother wouldn't want us to remember her this way. One week later, in the spring of 2001, my phone rang in the early-morning hours.

I knew, before I answered, that she was gone.

I've seen my dad cry twice in my lifetime — once when he found out his dad had passed away suddenly and again at my grandmother's visitation. After the funeral, I took home the boxes of her newspaper clippings. Some of them were mine.

My grandmother knew only one of her great-grandchildren, my cousin's son. The rest arrived after her death, a fact that tears at me still.

Just two more years, and she would have held my first-born.

I tell myself she knows, somehow, of my children's existence, and I imagine her her cradling each of them, saying what she said to each of us so many times:

You take care now. I love you, Hon.