A Christmas card attached to one of the album's pages.

What I have of her memory is a cherished photo album she made for my father when he went off to war.

The binders of this scrapbook, with age, are gone. Most of the photos remain on the original pages while some have fallen off.

What matters, however, is how the content within shaped my view and imagination of the woman my grandmother was.

The scenes are from the farm, the scenes are from Severn on the weekend, things my father would miss overseas.

From what my mother has told me about her mother-in-law, Julia Gatling Martin was quick with words, wrote bits of poetry, was creative as the arrangement of arrowheads at my mother's house attests to. I credit her for my love of words.

My best memory of her as a child was making us little pouches so we could hunt those arrowheads after the fields off Princeton Farm Road in Northampton County were turned. I still have those. They, too, have become cherished memories of a woman I wish had been on this earth a little longer.

I thank you for the short time I knew you, the love you had for my father and the acceptance of my mother into your family.

***

A photo of an original photo of Grandma Musha.

She grew up on a farm in Arkansas and mysteriously married an Albanian immigrant, for as much as we can understand to get away from that hardened lifestyle, picking cotton by hand.

While she disdained the work, she loathed modern farming just as much, commenting on the waste the pickers left on the field.

Of my two grandmothers, I knew her and loved her best.

Vesta Nelson Musha would make you laugh with her tales of growing up in the country, the story of a wake where the honoree was placed in the sitting position with a sweet potato in his hands was one of my favorites.

She understood what love was and love wasn't, explaining to one of her daughters-in-law don't marry someone you're not in love with.

She shared the same advice with me, in the throes of a college relationship I was unsure about.

What I miss most about her is her smile and warmth, her homespun humor and her being a saintly lady.

After receiving the call from my mom Grandma Musha was on her deathbed, the drive from Tennessee where I attended college to Murfreesboro was heart-wrenching.

My mother warned me she would not look like the same person I had grown to love and cherish growing up.

The long drive at least gave me time to brace myself for the change.

When I got to the house, it didn't matter she wasn't the same person. I just remember taking her hand, saying, “It's me,” and her giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

At my mom's house I broke down.

I thank you for the love you showed to me, helping to keep me grounded, and helping me to never forget it's important to remember your roots.

***

My mom with my college friend Richard, right, and his son, Drew, in a Scrabble contest in Murfreesboro.

My mother turned 89 in February.

We have a special bond because of the way she became both father and mother when my dad died at 15.

She is my role model, my source of inspiration and every day I am thankful for the influence she has had on my life.

Margaret Musha Martin does things many younger than her don't. She is still the treasurer of her church, keeping the books now electronically via computer where once she kept them in a large ledger.

She continues to keep up with current events and in our conversations we discuss the present political climate and she keeps me abreast of the comings and goings of her morning breakfast club meetings at McDonald's.

For what she has been through in her life, losing a first son at an early age, to losing her husband, she only became stronger and for that I'm so grateful.

While she had misgivings about this rrspin venture, she tells me she is proud of what I've accomplished thus far.

That's not what is important to me. What I am proud of is how she taught me to stand up for myself because there was a time as a youngster when it would take a court order to get me to say a word.

She instilled in me a sense of culture, helping me to appreciate classical music, hymns and even the singers of standard classics — to this day Al Martino singing Spanish Eyes remains a favorite.

A pianist, she encouraged me to take up music and I did, learning to play trumpet at school and even becoming good enough where I could play at church.

I think most she has taught me to be proud of who you are. It wasn't always easy being the daughter of an immigrant, the off-hand comments and sometimes blatant racism which came with it.

For my mother, I thank you for all you have done for me, the patience and understanding you have had with me and, mostly, for the love and guidance you have shown me. As I posted on her birthday, I'm not ashamed to be a mamma's boy — Lance Martin