The first thing I remember is snuggling in my grandmother’s arms. She always smelled like apple kuchen. When the dark dreams threatened, she was always there. Gram, a Swedish immigrant who married a Russian/German immigrant, set out to farm the great dust bowl of Kansas. My gramps wasn’t a farmer, but bootlegging liquor called his name. But yet, Gram’s farmer blood lives on in me, my daughter, my granddaughter, and now, my great granddaughter.
tiny, fearless, Gram took me in when my mom died a mother at heart baking, sewing, gardening— raised us all to love the land © Colleen M. Chesebro For dVerse, where Sarah Southwest asks us to write about our grannies.