{"id":1634,"date":"2018-11-01T06:45:21","date_gmt":"2018-11-01T12:45:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.irenenorth.com\/writings\/?p=1634"},"modified":"2024-04-22T02:46:13","modified_gmt":"2024-04-22T02:46:13","slug":"grandma","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/2018\/11\/01\/grandma\/","title":{"rendered":"Grandma"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

The best grandma in the world.<\/p><\/div>\n

I wrote this poem as part of my final project in my poetry class at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I turned it in on July 12, 1990. I had turned twenty-years-old seven days before. Today would have been Gram’s 96th birthday.<\/p>\n

Grandma<\/strong><\/p>\n

When I was sick, she used to take care of me
\nI’d lay on her big, green couch
\nShe would cover me with my favorite blanket
\nIt was big and furry, like the cats who laid on it
\nGram would tuck the edges
\naround my body
\nso I wouldn’t get cold<\/p>\n

I would watch Woody woodpecker
\nwhile she made me homemade chicken soup
\nPennsylvania Dutch style \u2013 with big noodles
\nShe always served it
\nin my Star Wars bowl<\/p>\n

She’d hand me the bowl
\nAnd I could see the veins
\nIn her soft, but calloused hands
\nthey were the only things old
\nabout her<\/p>\n

We turned the TV off
\nShe tells me about growing up
\nIn the Depression
\nHow poor her family was
\nhaving to add water to creamed corn
\nSo all the kids could eat<\/p>\n

She tells me how things are
\nSo much the same
\nBlacks still live separately from whites
\nUpset
\nShe leaves the room
\nAnd comes back with
\nTea and Yoo-Hoo
\nAnd a lecture
\nanother one on
\nHow to treat everyone with respect<\/p>\n

She smiles
\nletting me know the lecture is over
\nI ask her to read to me
\nI close my eyes and listen
\nto her soothing voice as I fall asleep to
\n\u201cTo be, or not to be…\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I wrote this poem as part of my final project in my poetry class at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. I turned it in on July 12, 1990. I had turned twenty-years-old seven days before. Today would have been Gram’s 96th birthday.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,9],"tags":[164,257,284,285],"class_list":["post-1634","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-gram","category-poetry","tag-gram","tag-new-york","tag-poem","tag-poetry"],"post_mailing_queue_ids":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1634","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1634"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1634\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3803,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1634\/revisions\/3803"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1634"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1634"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/irenenorth.com\/writings\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1634"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}