Bertha

Her name was Bertha.
     Friends and family called her Bert.
           To me she was always Grandmaw.

Though not filled with abundant memories of her,
      there was an overflow of love and laughter.
           Memories that have sustained me over time.

No more than five foot two in height and broad in width,
      She was hard of hearing, wore false teeth,
           had abundant bosoms cushioning her huge hugs.

She would chase me with false teeth in hand.
      Play hide-and-go-seek, her short chubby legs
           would be my horse when we played cowboys.

Years passed as she read stories, told fairy tales,
      sang funny song lyrics over and over.
           Little did I know of the hard life she had.

Growing up during the depression in West Virgina,
      she witnessed burning crosses on the not-so-distant hills,
           As a young child, worked in a stogie factory.

She, along with her mother, made bathtub beer during Prohibition
      while my mother, as a young child herself, was a lookout
           for the “dry dudes” intent on shutting down bootleggers.

Grandmaw never complained about the hard life she had.
      Never heard her utter an unkind word about others,
           always brought out the best in folks she encountered.

She loved me unconditionally,
      I loved her
           I am forever grateful to you, Grandmaw.