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I'd run through the acres of corn fields and up into the woods behind the farm. I'd pick strawberries, and remember when I was very little, I'd go with my grandmother to collect eggs from the chickens. (I think. This one is hazy and I might have dreamt it.)

My grandparents had a windmill that was directly behind the stone chicken house, and my younger cousins, Chris and Marc used to climb it and then jump to the roof of the chicken house daring each other to jump off the top. I don't either one ever did.

I remember waking up in the mornings and walking down the narrow staircase of the farmhouse and my grandmother would have oatmeal and Sugar Twin ready. And as a speacial treat, she would always, ALWAYS have jarred peaches for me. That was our little tradition--her other grandchildren would get peaches if they wanted them, but only I got them with a wink and a smile.

I remember the blue bedroom my sister and I would sleep in, and the faded red and white wallpaper in the dining room. I remember my grandparents silverware and the smell of their house. I remember my grandfather's collection of cowboy hats in the front entrance and the small kennel on the front porch where Buster, their collie-mix used to sleep.

I remember her seeing the tattoo on my ankle and instead of the kind "oh, dear" one would expect from any good Christian woman, my Grandmother said, "You know, I was thinking a few years ago of getting a tattoo, myself. A little butterfly." I remember my father replying "Oh mother, you did NOT." But I could tell by the spark in her eye and the spring in her step that she was completely serious.

When I was a kid, I was really into sports. One day, I think I was probably eight, I even convinced my grandmother to play with me.

My sister played outfield (just in front of the formal driveway) and I wanted to pitch. My grandmother, who was otherwise a frail-looking and kind woman, took my aluminum bat. I remember thinking "this is Grandma--best lay off the fast pitches."

I had an orange softball that I think I still have hidden somewhere. I threw a few warm-up pitches to my sister and then it was time to pitch to Grandma. I was going to take it easy on her. But all I got off was one measly pitch.

My grandmother had the swing of one of the great ones. Babe Ruth, we could have called her (that was her name). I heard the crack of a solidly-swung bat meeting the horsehide of a ball and the last thing I remember was a big ball of orange barrelling at my head.

The woman had aim, I'll give her that. That ball hit my nose before I had a chance to duck and blood came gushing from it. My Grandma gave a little whoop of surprise and threw down the bat, running to my aid. I remember crying horribly loud and the little smile of half-worry, half-amusement that my sister had on her face.

My Grandmother felt horrible for years.

I didn't. I could brag to my friends that my 70-something grandmother had the best damn line-drive I'd ever seen in my life. She also taught me to get my glove up quickly and probably contributed to the All-District and All-Region honors I won on the high school softball field.

I'm going to miss her. I'll miss her pep and her smiles. Her hugs and her cards. I'll miss her elaborate cursive handwriting--the kind they just don't teach anymore. I'll miss her laugh and her wink, her oatmeal and her cats.

Mostly, I'll miss her jarred peaches and her line-drive.