My Grandmother, My Mother and Me

I’ve been reading Bits and Pieces: My Mother, My Brother, and Me by Whoopi Goldberg, and it’s been quietly healing—guiding me through memory in ways I didn’t expect. The book reminds me how vital it is not just to preserve memory, but to honor it. That’s part of why Louis Hilton exists: to honor memory—that distant, often amorphous thing.

Today, I want to honor a memory of mine that includes my grandmother, my mother, and me.

My mother was the best daughter. And in turn, she is a great mother. Those roles—daughterhood and motherhood—were deeply interconnected. What she did for me, she had once done for her. My grandmother lived in Illinois. We lived wherever the Army took us. And yet, my grandmother was a mainstay in my life. My core memories often include her—because if my parents were doing something monumental, Ella was right there.

It was summer 1997. I remember being told we were going on a long road trip—and long it was. We drove and drove. My dad was at the wheel, my mom rode shotgun, and young Calyssa and Grandma Mae were tucked into the backseat.

My grandmother loved to declare the backseat as hers:

“I’m a backseat rider.”

“Mom,” my mother would plead, “you should sit in the front so you have more room.”

“Nah, I’m cool. I’m cool,” she’d reply.

And so we rode.

I’m sure my grandmother either worked on a word search or pointed out anything that caught her eye as we passed by. That was one of her favorite words—different. She saw beauty in the unexpected. Anything unique, special, or slightly out of the ordinary, she’d declare “different.”

Let us be watching TV and someone walks out in a beautiful outfit—my grandmother would exclaim,

“I like that. It’s different.”

So on our way to our destination, I’m sure Ella and Calyssa played the different game.

We drove on, probably dozing off once or twice. Then, after what felt like two whole days to my young mind, I looked up and saw it:

Welcome to Disney World.

I squealed. Not screamed—squealed.

“What’s that??” my grandmother said, laughing.

“Grandma, it’s Disney World!”

If I know her, she probably said something like,

“Girl, I don’t know where we are.”

But she was excited too. She loved anything different and new, and this was new for all four of us: our first trip to Disney World. Once my brother came along, we started going every New Year’s.

But that first trip? It was as magical as the place itself. It was early August, so my grandmother told everyone it was her birthday—and they treated her like royalty.

I wish I could recall more of that trip in my mind’s eye. But thank God for my mother, who created a photo album of the entire experience—one I still cherish.

I’ll let the photos tell the rest of the story. The bliss. The heaven I was in. You can see the joy on my face—but more than that, you can feel it.

My mom is the best mom. She understands me like no one else. She gives the best advice—truly, the best. She’s smart, perceptive, and kind. She has a deep, intuitive understanding of people and what they need. She taught me how to make others feel seen. How to care.

As the world grows harder and more distant, my mom reminds me to remain soft. To treat everyone I meet with that softness. She reminds me to slow down. To really hear people. Maybe that’s why I love memoirs and autobiographies so much: we all have a unique story, if we’d just take the time to listen.

My mom was the best daughter. She cared for my grandmother until the Lord called her home. I thought she had already taught me the essence of love and caretaking—but once again, just like my mother always does, she quietly set a new standard. I only hope I can live up to it.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mom.

Happy,  heavenly Mother’s Day to my grandmother.

My grandmother, my mother, and me. Forever and always.