Trudy

She was never quite serene. She was too opinionated, too determined, too focused for that. Lovely, always. Strong. But not serene.

Given all that, she moved with a dancer's grace. In my memories that was always apparent because she was always in motion. Whether walking, cooking, typing with flying fingers on a keyboard, writing with the precision of a calligrapher, or eyes scanning a page. It was energetic, incessant, and graceful. That grace came from purpose, and it's something I've often tried and failed to emulate.

In person she was quick with a smile. Engaging, easily shifting into conversation. Quick with an anecdote, a fact, knowledge, or a witticism. Small talk was never flippant, or surface for long. That purpose, that grace was there once again. 

I was always at her feet as a child. Summers, breaks, so much time was spent at their farm. And I couldn't always be outside so I became her shadow.

The island counter of their kitchen was my post. Or the kitchen itself. Watching her prepare for each meal, and trying my best to help. Each and every time. Kneading bread, mixing bowls, chopping vegetables. I was the runner to and from the basement for canned goods (of her making), supplies from the chest freezer. I absorbed every minute of it. 

Between meal times and meal preps she would be in the office/laundry room/sewing room. And I would be on the carpet of the living room, or the floor in front of the bookshelf in her office. I burned through World Book Encyclopedia volume by volume in one summer. I was six or so. I left dozens of scrap paper bookmarks. The next year I started bringing my own books. I started reading more and more. 

When she'd go to visit friends in the nursing home or work in the family history center I'd take a book. Or find something to read. That drive. It's never ended. A large part of it is thanks to her. 

After Papa and her moved down to live next door in Spokane the reading would continue. But so would weekend sleep overs in the basement. Music practices. The reading love never faded but a love of music in me grew and I would spend a lot of time on it. 

She loved it. She encouraged it. I could play the riff from Adam's Song over and over. She'd go to orchestra and choir concerts. Listen to me noodle. For an emo choir kid it was the world. I'd listen to old records with her. Play some of my own. 

I wasn't the most musically talented in the family. But she knew how much I loved it. Helped cultivate it. 

She made sure I could dance. Could lead. Count a beat. 

All of those things meant so much. 

At the house that was a refuge. For stealing an extra breakfast or dinner, or just having a chair, bed, or floor to crash on. Nana made me feel at home.

Gertrude "Trudy" Lundy was my person in a lot of ways. She was Nana. I remember when I was finally taller than her sophomore year. Those blue eyes were the same with the angle change. The same compassion, the same fire.

She loved butterflies and purple. So much she matched my converse addiction with a pair of her own. 

The bond we had is real. I still carry it with me. A drive. The desire for knowledge. The relentless curiosity. The care. I think a lot of it comes from her. Nature or nurture, I'm not sure which, but it came from her. 

All that and a love for nature, it's design. It's beauty. The bounty of it all. 

Remembering her. I have to be honest. There were some struggles I developed and shared with her.

That drive, that desire, the relentless motion. It left both us with a lack of patience. A desire to keep moving, searching. Finding peace was often harder.

It's the highs and the lows. The times of rabid energy, drive, and motivation. Followed by periods of low, lacking energy, sadness. It could be a roller coaster at times. One I ride now. Understanding me, my struggles. It's helped me understand her. The simultaneous and instantaneous switches of emotions. It makes me love her more. Empathize more. 

That inherent volatility. It can lead to indignation, and a temper I often share. Dogged in what we believe in, or have learned, or researched. I can do better. Especially when I reflect on where it came from.

Looking back lately I've realized how much of an influence she has been in my life. How much I miss her.

Nana was sick later in life. I came home from my mission, served an enlistment in the Army, and made it home for the end of her time. My kids mostly don't remember her, my wonderful wife only knew her in the ravages of Parkinson's. Often it's what I reflect on and remember.

That's not how I want my nostalgia, my memories to be. I want to focus on the essence of who she was. Who she is.

Nana was often the person who knew me best. Better than I knew myself. Her impact immeasurable for me. 

I feel compelled to share that. Show her, Who she was to me. 

Cause I love her. And I think about her, everyday.