It Was Just Us

Some of the greatest gifts in childhood begin with the simplest traditions.

Every visit to my grandparents' home followed the same familiar rhythm. Before the rest of the house was awake, my Mimi and I would slip onto the back porch in our pajamas, bowls of cereal in hand, and settle onto the porch swing together. We'd gently rock back and forth, talking about what adventures the day might bring.

It wasn't a special occasion.

It was simply what we did.

Every summer. Every visit.

For those quiet moments before the cousins woke up and the house filled with laughter, it was just us.

As a little girl, I thought those mornings were simply about cereal and conversation. Looking back, I realize they were lessons in disguise.

My Mimi believed that character mattered more than talent and that the greatest measure of a person was their work ethic. She knew that lesson firsthand. Growing up as a poor farm girl, she experienced the sting of being judged for circumstances beyond her control. Rather than allowing it to define her, she worked tirelessly to build a remarkable life. She became a respected emergency room nurse, helped my grandfather build their real estate and insurance business, and somehow managed to raise three children during a time when much of that responsibility quietly fell on mothers.

Yet what I admired most about her had nothing to do with her accomplishments.

Even into her nineties, she was sharp as a tack—quick with a witty joke, nearly impossible to beat at cards, a gifted gardener, an extraordinary cook, and somehow able to make every room she touched feel warm and beautiful. But above all else, she had an extraordinary gift for making every grandchild feel like the most important person in the world.

I painted It Was Just Us as a Christmas gift for her, and she proudly displayed it in the foyer at the bottom of her staircase, where she passed it every day. Today, it hangs in the same place in my own home.

When my mom and I drove away after visiting my grandparents, we cried almost every single time. Leaving them simply meant leaving two of our favorite people in the world. Looking back now, I realize we weren't the only ones who felt that way. All seven of her grandchildren called her every week—not because we felt obligated to, but because we genuinely wanted to hear her voice.

To me, that says everything about the legacy she left behind.

It was an honor to know her, to learn from her, and to be loved by her for thirty-five years. Every time I pass this painting, I'm reminded that the greatest inheritance she left us wasn't a porch swing or a family home.

It was the example of a life beautifully lived.