Narrative Essay About My Great Grandmother

My great-grandmother was raised by her mom, dad, and other relatives. She, and many cousins, were raised up as brother and sister in a close-knit family. Harriett Marshall, my great-grandmother, was born in Saltillo, Tennessee on January 7, 1931. She has lived through many trying times. It is a blessing to live through so many events that changed the nation, even the world. She has lived through the following events and many more: The Great Depression, World War II, the historic signing of Jackie Robinson, Brown v. Board of Education, the Civil Rights movement and many more.

I never thought the day would come, the day I would lose someone so important to me, my grandma. My grandma was the best grandmother ever, she was caring and loved all of her children and her grandchildren. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross has her five stages of grieving that I had went through after my grandma had passed. In the book of poems What Have You Lost, Naomi Shihab Nye selected various categories of poems. The two poems I have selected have to do with the loss of a grandmother. These poems, “Tutu on the Curb” and “Where on this Earth” have different views on the loss of loved ones.

“You'll be ok I'm right here for you,” My grandma told me with a sad voice.

My grandmother, Joan Stackhouse, has been the most influential woman in my life. She was born in the late 1930s and raised during the time where African Americans didn’t have many rights. She told me about a time where all she could do is clean houses to earn a couple cent to support the family. Her husband worked as a policeman and was barely home. When an educational opportunity became available she took advantage of it and began taking classes at Francis Marion University to later become a teacher’s aid. Today at almost 80 she’s battling Rheumatoid Arthritis, fibromyalgia, and a couple other things that comes with old age. But she remains strong. my grandmother has influenced me to remain strong regardless of the situation and has taught

It all began when I was about five years old, having sleepovers in my great grandma’s room. She loved telling stories and playing dress up with me. In her room she kept a lot of pillows on her bed. She had fancy pillows in a variety of sizes, shapes, colors, and textures. Every time I entered her room, she would allow me to jump around on the bed filled with pillows. All that jumping around and having all that fun felt amazing, and that's when I fell in love with one of her pillows and named it Bobby.

My mother mourns privately and I join her for the first time in a long time, longing for things to have been different. I find myself desperately seeking the warmth and comfort I’ve always found in my family. I find myself desperately seeking the warmth and comfort I’ve always found in my true family. The family that has always been there and shown support. I no longer see the heavy, sleek-cut stone as ancient memories rush into my now-clouded vision. I’m not going to forget you or leave you. I’ll be loyal to you and your memory. I don’t want to be like him.

Families greeted each other with hugs and small talk while the children were running around playing tag, it did not seem like a memorial service at first. Then, the light atmosphere immediately dropped and like sinking lead, a somber nostalgic mood saturated the crowd. The chapel became so quiet in a matter of seconds that a penny dropped would leave an echo. The ceremony began with prayers and catechisms. Then, the first guest speaker went up the stage. He started after a long pause. As he told everyone his experience as a father, I could feel his heart ache and yearn for his late daughter. As several guest speakers poured their feelings and sentiments into their stories, I felt the similar heavy weight in my heart. Everyone

No one that I’d loved so dearly had ever died. The whirlwind experience of waiting for my parents to come home, watching my parents, aunts, and uncles plan a funeral, and then missing school for both the wake and the funeral was exhausting. The jam-packed schedule did not give me time to contemplate and understand what had happened. In fact, those first few days after my grandfather's death were the easiest as they were a distraction from the truth. Attend a wake, accept condolences, attend a funeral, accept more condolences, and then go home being too exhausted to have any further thoughts than “I want to go to bed”. It was the calm after the storm that hurt me in the long

It was so devastating to get the news, that night my aunt had been in charge of caring for him overnight, she felt so guilty as if it were her fault. I’d been the first one up every morning and so I received a call from my aunt crying barely being able to speak, “Amy he’s gone, I’m sorry”. It was a Friday morning, that Friday morning that marked my life forever. As I informed my parents, it was difficult my mother shed to pieces and hurried to the hospital. Despite the loss, I went to school with no strength. Physically I was there, however but mentally I was not, all I thought about is our last words the night before and my promise to never give

After roasting marshmallows, the sticky sweet on my sons' fingers, my father stares into the coals, starts talking about his mother, my grandmother, my sons' great-grandmother. He tells of how she fought her death to the end, even under the morphine drip. Nonverbal tantrums on her bed.

Mom went over first, thanking God that my father had the forethought to create an emergency fund we could use to buy last minute tickets. Dad and I didn’t plan to go until Saturday, when the news of grandma passing pushing us to go and support mom. In truth, I felt almost indifferent to my grandma’s death; which might seem shallow, but I never knew got the opportunity to know her. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease before I was born, and when she first met me, she was in a stage with sudden mood swings. My mother tells me that she went from calmly talking to my Aunt to angrily grabbing my baby carrier from my mom and trying to walk out the front door while mom and Aunt Mary tried desperately to calm her down. I never knew my grandmother when she would be able to remember my name and not mistake

It was a Monday night; I remember it like it was yesterday. I had just completed my review of Office Administration in preparation for my final exams. As part of my leisure time, I decided to watch my favorite reality television show, “I love New York,” when the telephone rang. I immediately felt my stomach dropped. The feeling was similar to watching a horror movie reaching its climax. The intensity was swirling in my stomach as if it were the home for the butterflies. My hands began to sweat and I got very nervous. I could not figure out for the life of me why these feelings came around. I lay there on the couch, confused and still, while the rings continued. My dearest mother decided to answer this eerie phone call. As she

I will tell you a tale of a woman of great success. This is a woman that has inspired me to be something great one day and to never give up trying. Though she may be growing into her elderly years she has lived a very challenging, joyful, loving and successful life. She is a woman of great faith and character, she is my grandmother.

At just over five feet tall, she was the kind of woman that you saw on the street and knew to move out of her way. Her demeanor was strict, her hands tied with thick blue veins, criss­crossing over her thin, frail fingers.

I walked in the doors of Sandifer Funeral Home, preparing for the saddest day of my life. My eyes met my cousin’s and I embraced him in a hug. Everyone was crying and and holding onto each other. It was an experience I will never forget.