When History Repeats Itself
Today would have been my Grandma McBride's 115th birthday. Can you imagine? I actually had to double-check the year she was born, it was 1896. The funny thing is, it seems totally plausible that she could have lived to be 115. She gave it a good run, that's for sure. She died just shy of her 97th birthday. I was working in Dubuque and living with my parents at that time. I came home from work and found one of those smallest sticky notes--you know, the ones that are about 1" square--stuck on the kitchen table with two words scribbled on it in my dad's messy handwriting. After staring at it and turning the note around several times, I realized that it said, "Hester died." Jeez, thanks dad...I like how you broke the news to me that my last grandparent had died. So, as I was thinking about Grandma McBride today, thoughts of Grandma Scherrman also crept into my mind. It made me think how different they were, and how I inherited a little part of each of their per...