Thinking of you, Dot

My grandma, Dorothy Jean Patton, passed away this morning, and I can't help but feel the world is a little less of a nice place to be because of it. I know it's human nature to remember only the best of someone after they are gone, but I promise you that I esteem Grandma Dot as one of the best good women of the world.

One of my earliest memories of Grandma happened while she was taking care of my sister and me. We must have been just horribly rotten and given her quite a time because she got frustrated and told us that she was going to come down and swat us on our bottoms. We'd never been threatened with violence from her before, and we took this challenge seriously. I can just picture Michelle and I intensely discussing the problem before coming up with a solution. We scurried into the bathroom, stuffed as much toilet paper as our pants would hold into our underwear, and then went to face our punishments. We thought we'd outsmarted her for sure. And down she came (I can only imagine what she thought when she saw our bulging behinds). I turned around and bent over, only to be shocked and almost disappointed at the little tap she planted on my rear. It was certainly like no spanking I'd received before. And that's when I learned something wonderful about grandmas in general, and mine in particular. They love us.

As a grown woman, I've had the chance to learn lots of other things about Miss Dorothy Jean. She believed in people like I've never seen anyone else do. As she attended all sorts of plays, concerts, and performances by her grandchildren she would tell us all so earnestly that we should go professional in whatever endeavor it happened to be. She wasn't just saying it to be nice; she really saw talent in us and wanted us to shoot for the moon. She always made me feel like I could do anything, with a wholehearted support I haven't encountered many other places. She loved my husband's malts and if I wasn't in love with him before she met him, you can bet she would have convinced me to be. I think she had a special soft spot for him--they were kind of kindred spirits in a lot of ways.

Grandma loved to blare her all-Elvis radio channel and I think she only turned it off when she was watching Fox News. I love that she loved Greta. Grandma could take in stride Harrison's "No way, Dot! No way!" first thing in the morning and still be ready and willing to bribe him with M&M's all the live long day. She watched an entire season of 24 in a three-day period with Dan and me. It'd be verging on midnight and us youngin's would be ready to turn in after three episodes in a row, but she'd have that gleam in her eye and say, "Are you ready for one more?"

Grandma used to come to church with us on General Conference Sundays. There was always a bit of strategery going on because we all wanted to sit by her. Not just when we were little, either. Sitting by Grandma at church meant that you'd be treated to one of those drowsiness-inducing hand massages that she had a special knack for. Heaven-on-Earth. But not to worry, even when you were beat out for the coveted seat, all was not lost. You could always count on a little blue roll of Certs, or a box of Tic Tacs to make its way down to you during the meeting. Not too long ago, I got to go to church with Gram and Michelle and her family. During the service I happened to glance down and saw that the tradition was being continued with Luke. I'm so glad he had the chance to get a Grandma Patton hand massage. Nothing like it.

I know I'm rambling. I had envisioned being able to sit down and write an eloquent, fabulous tribute to one of this blog's most ardent supporters and biggest fans. I'm failing at that, but I do want to at least express this. I love you, Grandma. I'm so glad I've had all the chances I've had to be with you, learn from you, love you, and be loved by you. I'm so happy that you've moved on to a place of greater peace and joy. I'm just sad for the rest of us that have been so spoiled by your attention and affection and are now at a loss. You are missed.