My parents divorced when I was young. I spent most of my time with my mom and stepdad; and his mom, Irene.
For years, I wondered what to call her. Was she my grandma? Step-grandma? Something in-between? I spent too long trying to figure out a title, but looking back now, it didn’t matter. She didn’t need a label. She was just Irene. And she was one of the most important people in my life.
She lived to be 99. That alone is remarkable. But it’s not the number that sticks with me, it’s everything she lived through along the way. She survived breast cancer. Multiple strokes. Multiple heart attacks. She lost her eyesight to macular degeneration. Her hearing slowly faded. Her mobility declined. And yet, she was the happiest, most positive person I knew.
She’d sit at the kitchen table, smile wide, and tell me stories. About the year she got oranges for Christmas. About riding her horse, Jigs, to school in the cold, sometimes in the snow, like it was no big deal. Her voice would light up when she talked about those days. Not because they were easy, but because she had found joy in them.
Irene didn’t complain. She didn’t focus on what she’d lost. She focused on what she still had: people, memories, faith, and the ability to love. She’d ask about my day, even when she could barely hear the answer. She’d laugh even when she couldn’t see who was in the room. That shaped me.
Her strength didn’t show up in loud moments or big speeches. It showed up in the quiet way she kept going. In the way she kept finding good in the world, no matter how much the world took from her.
Irene didn’t need to be called Grandma. She was love, presence, joy, and grit, all in one. Sometimes the people who shape us most don’t come with official titles. They come with oranges at Christmas, a horse named Jigs, and stories that still echo long after they’re gone.
Moler's Musings 