Every moment spent with my grandmother, Elva Bryant, was a cherished memory, a golden thread woven into the fabric of my childhood. Her home, with its inviting porch and small garden bursting with life, was more than just a place—it was a sanctuary of warmth and comfort. The cozy charm of her tiny green cottage was only surpassed by the quiet grace of the woman who lived within its walls. With her boundless love and gentle spirit, my grandmother had a way of making each of us feel like the most special person in her life.

Visiting Grandma was always a treat, and I treasured every opportunity to spend time with her. Often, I would stop by to see her, eager to lend a hand with housework or simply bask in her company. Dusting was one of my favorite chores—not because I enjoyed cleaning, but because Grandma’s collection of knick-knacks was a trove of stories waiting to be told. Each delicate figurine, each well-loved trinket, had a tale attached, and she delighted in sharing them with me.

In the kitchen, she had a small collection of ceramic chickens, their bright colors standing out against the warm hues of her home. Those little hens always prompted stories of the ranch, of flocks she had cared for in another time and place. She would chuckle as she described the pint-sized bantams—tiny but full of attitude—strutting about the chicken yard as if they were in charge of the entire coop.

Her green Victorian-style sofa, its fabric soft and welcoming, was adorned with a sheepskin—a quiet nod to her deep love for animals. The mere mention of her lambs would bring a twinkle to her eye as she reminisced about their playful antics and soft, trusting faces. Even her cows were more than just livestock; they were beloved companions, their gentle eyes and familiar routines etched into the landscape of her memories.

Grandma’s kindness extended to all creatures, no matter how small. When neighborhood cats had kittens, she would leave out food for them, and before long, they made themselves at home. Some remained in the yard, sunning themselves on the porch, while the more adventurous ones ventured inside. It never failed to amuse her when a kitten leapt onto her lap, curled up, and purred contentedly. She would stroke their fur absentmindedly as she watched her afternoon soaps, a variety show, or chatted with guests who had come to visit.

Afternoons were often spent on the porch, where she would sit with me as I weeded the strawberry patch and tended to her flower garden. Grandma adored her pansies and Johnny Jump-Ups, their cheerful faces peeking out from the rich soil. She also loved hens and chicks—the tiny, clustered succulents that thrived in the nooks of her flower beds. As I worked, she would share stories of Colorado, her voice filled with longing for the place she once called home. Even as a child, I could sense the beauty of the land she missed so dearly.

But my favorite stories were those about life on Roger’s Mesa. I swelled with pride knowing that my family had real cowboys and cowgirls—men and women who rode horseback, herded sheep, and lived by the rhythms of the land. Grandma spoke of moving the sheep to the mountains in the summer, of long days spent shearing wool, and of neighbors coming together to lend a helping hand. Through her words, I understood that family was the heart of her world, and she made certain we never forgot just how much we meant to her.

Decades have passed, and still, I bask in the glow of my grandmother’s love, even though she has been gone for over forty years. The warmth of her devotion lingers, wrapping around me like the softest embrace. I miss her, but I find peace in knowing that one day, I will sit beside her once more. And when that moment comes, I will lean in close, eager to listen as she tells me about her heavenly homecoming and the new adventures she has found in the arms of those she loves.