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My great-grandmother is Etta Smith.
She was born into the Gully family in Mississippi, 1904.
She hated needlework, and preferred to play outdoors with her brother, Albert, climbing trees.
She married the boy across the pasture. His name was Johnny Smith.
She worked her garden and raised her children, a boy and a girl, my grandmother.
She used recipes that were simple, tasty, and easy to remember.
She went to church every Sunday.
She lost her house to a fire after her children were grown, and built it again, on the same spot.
She lost her husband and her brother and her friends.
She outlived her son.
She read books by the bagfull, in her old age.
She crocheted afghans for everyone in her family.
She wrote poetry.
She teased her son-in-law.
She never missed Wheel of Fortune.
She never complained.
She survived uterine cancer, almost a century old.
She healed completely from a broken hip.
She pleaded with God to take her to heaven, and waited decades, trusting Him.
She told her grandchildren she would climb a tree when she got there.
She said she would run, and ride a bike.
She would ask for a job in the garden.
She slipped into a coma, at the age of 102, yesterday.
She went home.
We are proud of her, and so happy she is free.