Mrs. Betty Wager

One of the closest relationships I ever had was the one that I shared with my grandmother, Betty Wager. A woman who was widowed, a mother of one, and probably the biggest Pittsburgh Penguins fan that you would ever meet. She was one of those people that had so much love in her heart that you could feel it engulf you as you entered her house. She would go above and beyond to make anyone and everyone feel special before even considering herself, such a selfless woman, with a smile that could shine light on even the darkest of days. That was my grandma.

She lived in a small and tidy house, her yard kept trim with bushes lining the front, cut to perfection. Big tall trees engulfed the front of her yard that laid parallel to the rocky and well-worn street that she had called home for the past 30 years.

I can still remember walking through her front door and being graced with the sweet aroma of Sunday dinner that filled the air. Sunday dinner was a weekly tradition in my family. After church on Sunday mornings, we would ride along the back roads of Erie in the short trek to go visit grandma.

I could do nothing wrong in this woman’s eyes as she made me feel so special as I arrived. Wrapping me in her warm, loving arms before exclaiming, “Oh how tall you’ve grown!” I would run to the wall of her kitchen, where pencil scratches were scribbled, all marking my height as I had grown throughout the years. All I wanted was for her to check if I had grown just a little bit more, and ask how far away I was from being as tall as her.

After dinner, my parents would lounge on the couch after a long week of work, my sister would be sat cozily and comfortable in her favorite chair reading the Sunday funnies, and I… I would be with my grandma. She had this small, metal golf ball practice hole that we spent hours practicing our putting at. I would come up with the craziest of spots to putt to and from, and not once did she ever bat an eye or say that she was too tired to play. The patience which that woman had with me is a testament of how truly saintly she really was.

I remember one of the darkest days I ever endured was the day my father received a phone call from my grandmother’s neighbor. She had been cleaning the gutters of her house when she tripped off her ladder and fell backwards, cracking her head off the driveway. She was treated in the hospital and put into a resting area, as she had fallen into a coma. I remember my dad, a normally very strong man, so weak with red watery eyes telling me to go into her room and say my final goodbyes to my grandmother. At fourteen, I had never felt so much emotional trauma as I did when I walked into that room and saw my poor sweet grandma laying so fragilely in bed with her mouth slightly open and eyes loosely closed. I grabbed her cold, unresponsive hand, and I thanked her for the kindness that she had taught me, for all the love that she had given me, and all of the memories that she had shared with me. Hours after my visit with her, she had passed away.

She had a motto that was scratched onto a chalkboard that hung quietly in her cupboard that read, “Enjoy Each Day.” Those three words still come to mind every morning when I roll out of bed. She epitomized living in the moment and living life to the fullest. I wholeheartedly believe that she still comes to each one of my hockey games to cheer me on. That’s why before each game I point my stick up in the air and remember one of the greatest women to ever walk this earth…

My grandmother.