I can see my grandmother just as she was the last time we were together:

Little Elaine is six years old, Grandma was eighty-five. Her long, iron grey hair is twisted into a tight bun at the crown of her head. The sturdy shoes are, as always, firmly laced and tied with perfect bows. Her visage is stern, but her eyes are soft blue. Even having only seen me as a baby and at age four, and me being one of over forty grandchildren, she loves me. She is fairly austere, devoutly religious, and determinedly old fashioned. But she is the only grandparent I have ever known and therefore incomparable.

She sits in the rocking chair my mom positioned especially for her mother to use—situated perfectly so the elderly woman could look through the picture window to gaze upon trees and green grass. My grandma is tired. She is old. Oh, what things she has seen in her lifetime. Imagine, when she was young her father drove the family around in a wagon pulled by a horse—or a covered wagon with two horses for long trips. A Delta Airlines jet has just brought the current family matriarch from West Virginia to Texas in less than six hours. She is amazed. The year is 1963 and man hasn't yet reached the moon, but the challenge has been issued. Grandma has no doubt he will succeed. She has seen many wonders during her lifetime—anything is possible.

Such faith and perseverance is what made my family what it is—strong. Life was difficult in the early twentieth century, but it was good. My grandparents settled on farm on some acreage in the mountains of central West Virginia, built onto a primitive cabin and rebuilt an old barn. They raised twelve of their own children plus many nieces and nephews.

Perseverance is deep-rooted in Grandma's descendants, as that farm is still in existence—indeed—still in the family. The log cabin on top of the mountain where my mother was born in 1918 and where my sister was born in 1945 is still there. The cemetery where our ancestors are buried beside more recent deceased family members is lovingly cared for by grand- and great-grandchildren. The feeling I experience by just sanding beside that old, log cabin is an amazing, soft blanket of belonging.

What I would say to my grandmother given the chance today is simply this: Thank you for establishing our family and the home place. Thank you for giving me a bath when I was four in a large, metal wash tub. Thank you for sending my cousin and me to pick blackberries by the unbelievably rocky driveway and, after we washed the chiggers off, allowing us to help make the best cobbler ever.

I would give her a hug, and smile as her usual stern manner softened a bit. Thanks, Grandma, for loving me. Thanks for keeping the home place, and for bequeathing the farm to your children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and beyond. It is this gift that allows us to truly feel our roots—and know there will always be a home for us on top of the mountain in West Virginia—a place where we truly belong.