Nita.

IShe taught us how to hug.

Not the wimpy, pat the back hug.
The squeeze-your-lungs-empty-so-your-next-breath-could-be-full-of-love hug.
The encircle-you-with-arms-just-long-enough-and-wide-enough-to-smother-you-with-unabashed,-uninhibited,-unlimited-love hug.

It was the only consistent thing I remember getting in trouble for at Grandma's house: passing by her without surrendering myself to a warm dunk into a secure embrace, undoubtedly followed by a nuzzle or eskimo kisses or big, rapid-fire, full-on kisses (probably my least/most favorite kind as a pig-tailed blondie).

"Unabashed" didn't just describe her hug-style of love. Though the methods may have caused some to blush, one can't deny how special you felt when a touchdown, song service, baptism or graduation was celebrated by anything from a hearty (some might call it boisterous) Amen to an elaborate processional tune tapped out on a car horn. She gushed openly and publicly about how much she loved her family - and we loved her.

Never did a Scandinavian have a more hispanic moniker: Juanita Delores. She always had something special waiting for us Wisconsin girls - her "pink angels" - when we came to visit. The warm, pink fuzzy pajamas with the bear on the shoulder. Trips to Ludington Park to see (and feed - don't tell) the seagulls. Mini-sized cereal boxes so we didn't have to share with siblings/cousins unless we wanted to. A well-stocked cookie jar. A toy closet with a plethora of well-loved trinkets. Campouts on the living room floor cramming all our cousin-bodies onto "Pinky" (the giant furry blanket of non-disclosed color) and a goodnight wish of "Hasta mañana".

I was a proud 6-year-old. I could outlast the best of my cousins in the length of tolerated "back-scratching", which invariably put me to sleep; whether it was with light fingernails or with the antenna of that blocky cordless phone.
...Only recently did I figure out that my slumber was her full intent.

She was a wordsmith. 

October 19, 2014: "Wondering whether I am enjoying the weather today. Upon awakening my bedroom had a golden glow created by the sun shining on the intense gold of the maple tree outside my window. The side facing south and east was mostly green but the north-westerly half was golden. The falling leaves were drifting down so slowly I could count them as they fell. Beyond the big brown tree trunk the lawn was a bright green that sparkled like it was diamond covered. At the root area of the tree was a deer having breakfast. It is now almost 3 o'clock PM and the scene has changed tremendously. The bright blue sky is covered with thick gray clouds, the green lawn no longer sparkles and if the deer was still around she would be walking on a gold carpet. With his cheeks puffed out Jack Frost is causing the leaves to dance to his music and only about a third of this mornings splendor on the gold half of the tree are still hanging on. The thermometer says one-half of a hundred so even Yoopers are doing more than tee shirts. My only comment is BURRR"

Shaping scenes with synonyms, homonyms, antonyms as deftly as Bob Ross painted a happy tree or a happy bird. And each time I've been told to continue placing pen to page (or pixel to post), I pay homage to her.

She taught us to love. BIG love. A love big enough to gather children, spouses, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, cousins, nieces, nephews, and 'adopted' family from across the country to hug and sing and say goodbye. A love clear enough to be known, even when words could no longer be used to communicate it.

Oh, tricky verb tenses. I've struggled throughout this post, which I began penning when we first received news that Grandma wasn't expected to leave the hospital this time. I've wondered if present tense or past was appropriate; a trivial thing, really. So now, I move to future tense with confidence: 

Jesus will come again.
And Jesus will call for Nita.
And He will open wide His arms to teach even Grandma how to hug.  

Hasta mañana, Grandma.