Dorothy Litke
Her name was Dorothy Litke, but I knew her as Grandma Litke. She's my husband Brian's grandmother, and she died on Monday at the age of 97. That number is just another small indicator of how tough she was.
Her obituary defines her as a farm wife and homemaker, but I think that's underselling it. Her husband died in the mid 60s, and after that she managed their farm herself for decades. Brian used to go spend summers with her. She'd put him to work, and she taught him how to fish. I've heard a whole lot of stories about the basement full of weird stuff and ancient toys. He makes it sound like a childhood heaven, and I think it must have been that.
Her funeral is going on even as I write this. I'm not there, and at the moment I couldn't feel more guilty for that. I really should be there. But more than anything, I wish I could go back and thank her again for everything she did for Brian. She was a tremendous influence on his life, he could only be the strong, brilliant, awesome man that he is today because of her. While she was still around, I did try to knit some special scarves just to please her; in retrospect, it feels like a lame attempt to show my affection. But the truth is, nothing I did was ever going to be enough, because she was always going to deserve something even more, something even better. That's just the kind of person she was.
I love you, Grandma. Thank you for everything, the work, the fishing, and the Christmases at your house. We're all going to miss you.
