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We said goodbye to Grandma last week. She was 94-years-old.

Ninety. Four.

Born in 1922.

History is not my expertise, but I would doubt there’s a generation that’s seen the world change as much as she did in her lifetime.

She met Grandpa when she was a car hop at Ritz’s Ice Cream at 17th & Jackson. She was 14. He gave her rides home from work on the handlebars of his bike. They got married a year after graduating from East High School.

When he enlisted and went to Camp Davis in NC, she joined him for awhile before returning to Kansas City five months pregnant. Travelling by train with her suitcase as her seat, because they couldn’t afford an actual ticket.

When their firstborn (my mom) arrived, he was stationed in the Solomon Islands. He didn’t come home until she was nearly 3-years-old.

Grandma and Grandpa were fun. They were all about friends, family, games, time at the Lake, road trips, food, and love. They lived big even though they never had lots.

Grandpa died too young, nearly 26 years ago and Grandma missed him every day since.

I hope they still make people like Grandma and Grandpa. And I hope we still know how to live and love like they did.


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