Granny died when I was in college. In the years between the little red wagon, the hill and the porch (see two posts down), she got increasingly ill. When the colon cancer came back the third time, the doctors didn't want to operate.
My family concurred, and brought her home to die in her own house.
She looked so small in that hospital bed next to the big cast iron one that I had slept in and fallen off of. Hospital beds have a way of making anyone look small. It's phenomena I'll never understand.
She died in her own bedroom and was mourned by so many that there was barely room for anyone who wasn't family. She had over 300 kids, grandkids, great grandkids and in-laws of all varieties.
I had the honor of providing the music for her funeral. I went through a Baptist Hymnal and picked out things I thought she would like. She was always so proud that I could play the piano, but that was one of the only times she heard me play.
My proudest moment was an acapello duet with a friend called "Haven of Rest." It was hard getting through, but when I was done, I knew I did Granny proud.
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