For Grandma

Catherine Jane Reasoner

December 8, 1931 – November 3, 2025

I am not sure what to do with all the feelings inside my heart about her, how to summarize someone who was such a great presence in my life. I knew her as a child, from my mind as a child, she will always be tainted by a lens of nostalgia in this sense. She will be a different person to me than she was to anyone else. For she and I were unique in all the world, as love often is, our laughter, our hugs, the times I cried into her arms and she held me close. She was everything to me. While I know I am not alone in caring for her, not alone in laughing with her, not alone in loving her, we all had our own moments of love with her. I will cherish these moments of ours for the rest of my life. Despite the version of her I saw with my adult eyes, the version of her that came in her final days, an echo of her strength, her largeness of life, despite the fact I watched her light fade month after month, year after year. You could still see her joy, her inner child, she still seeked laughter and light. I could also see her longing for who she once was, her ability to make and create with her hands. Not even something I saw in its hay-day but nonetheless will always admire. 

Her passion for making was simple and steady, things made for people to smile. Some of her creations were enterprised, her glorious days sculpting wedding cakes and delicious baked goods, the many many craft shows and hours of labor making and sewing. Her hours sewing quilts, fixing our clothing, making gifts. I have a cascade of memories of her icing christmas cookies, or when she showed me how to make icing pansies and roses for cakes, of us all mixing pink homemade applesauce with cinnamon hearts, or watching her take a pie crust out of the oven ready for us to make something special together. My young eyes watching in awe around Thanksgiving as she made gravy and noodles and the rest of the meal alongside my family.

How did she do it all?  I saw her ability to do anything first hand. I was very small when I first sat on her lap and learned how to use the sewing machine. I learned from her that if there was a creative idea it could be done, it could be made, that any skill could be learned. My eyes watched her generosity first hand, her love for people, for giving, for making sure all her neighbors got christmas cookies, to caring for her family, to making sure she gave everyone a good laugh. She would say, “ I love to laugh.”

I will hold so close, the image of us gathered around the table in her original home on crestland, us gathered for so many different reasons over the years, laughing until we couldn't breath for so many reasons. Then there's me sat on her lap asking for a story, asking to hear about her life and her childhood. Amazed she lived in a time without a fridge. The memories of her and I giggling in church when shouldn't have been, of her loving every doodle I drew for her. Her eyes saw so much goodness, on car rides she always pointed out patches of trees or color of sky turning ordinary road trips into beautiful scenery. She made life seem like a beautiful journey. Even our many nondescript days of afterschool bus drop-offs at her home, all seem so beautiful, of me snacking on her club crackers and telling her about my day, my grandfather nearby “resting his eyes.” The moments of her holding me close, making me believe I could do anything. 

Now, I worry that the closer I hold her, these memories, the more I am at risk for losing them. I have barely fragments of memory left of us gathering handfuls of raspberries from her garden. What if I lose the sight of that ornery twinkle in her eyes, their green and brown color, the imperfect curve of her smile. But her love is within me, and any selflessness I may have, any joy I have to share, any wonder I see in the world has been shaped by her.  I hope that through the continuance of her love within me, that is her light continuing to shine, in all the people she has touched and cherished, in all of her “favorites” she will continue to shine and light up this world. Because of this I know, her light will never truly fade, and her kindness, her joy, and my grandma will always be a blessing upon this earth. 

Thank you for honoring her light with me.

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A beloved poem by her father, Morgan Fausnight:

“There was a frog

Sat on a log

Weeping for his daughter 

His eyes were red

His tears were shed

So he JUMPED right into the water”

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