My paternal grandmother was a hard-edged soul and from a young age, adversity was etched into her daily life. Although she bore the weight of the world, giving up was not an option.

“We’ve got stickability,” she’d say with regularity.

By the time I came along, my grandmother was aged and worn down by a difficult life. Grammy was present for celebrations and family gatherings, but I didn’t know her well. Her delivery was often blunt. She smoked and drank and cussed. She endured.

I wouldn’t learn details about Grammy’s early life until decades later. She was a young wife and mother to three little boys. My grandfather was a strapping young man who was not only dearly loved by his family, but deeply respected within the community.

I have a single dog-eared photo of my grandfather, casually leaning against a post in the county automotive garage where he worked. His coveralls and face are smudged with grease. Looking past the grime that comes with hard work, he was very handsome and full of life. I wonder who took this picture so many years ago, unknowing it would be the last.

On a crisp Sunday morning in 1928, my grandfather and his closest friends set out on opening day of deer season. They drove high into the mountains, hiking deep into the woods on a mission to feed their families through the long winter months.

In a split second, the unthinkable would alter my family’s history. Hunting in remote wilderness, several men in their party took aim at the same deer. My grandfather was in the line of fire and was shot by his best friend. His only chance of survival was a protracted drive through mountainous switchbacks to a country doctor many miles away. The frantic drive, limited by steep terrain, would take too long. My grandfather did not survive. He was 29 years-old.

I can’t imagine the raw grief when the news was delivered to Grammy. The lives of two families were shattered that day. How the guilt must have eaten his friend alive and destroyed his future as well. Newspaper clippings revealed that my grandfather’s friend was prostrated and hospitalized, tormented by inconceivable sorrow. I often wonder what happened to his friend. I wonder if my family forgave him. I wonder if he ever forgave himself.

One year later, the cruel punishment of the Great Depression arrived and Grammy struggled to care for her three boys. My great-grandmother lived with them, but as an amputee with a malady of illnesses, Grammy also became her caretaker.

There were no hollow chants of entitlement. There was no one to depend on but a few family members and the benevolence of community. At a time when an entire country struggled, help was in short supply. With an uncertain future, Grammy somehow found the will to get up each day; to put one foot in front of the other and take care of her family.

“We’ve got stickability,” she told her boys with assurance.

Grammy had only completed the 9^th grade. She worked during the day, then took the bus a great distance to attend beauty school. Despite unending exhaustion, she opened a beauty shop in her home. Through the depression, she worked dawn to dusk doing the hair of women more fortunate than herself.

On my 11^th birthday, Grammy gave me a white bible with my name etched on the front. In her usual gruff manner, she told me that I would need this. I didn’t understand at the time that she was giving the gift of faith, preparing me for my own heartache.

Several months later, Grammy was hospitalized with a serious heart condition. She was elderly, infirm, and the prognosis was grim. The doctors said she would never go home.

At the same time, my mother was in and out of the hospital. Despite a double mastectomy and several other surgeries, the cancer ravaged her frail body. The hospital prohibited children from visiting, so my dad brought her home for a few hours to tell her children goodbye. And then she was gone.

When Grammy heard the news, she demanded to be released from the hospital. History was repeating itself. The parallel of losing your one true love, leaving behind three young children to raise alone rallied a call to action. Although her time on earth was coming to an end, Grammy pulled herself up and told the doctors, “My boy needs me.”

“We’ve got stickability,” she told my dad with conviction.

As I look through the parables of her life, I’ve learned many things about Grammy. My grandfather remained forever young, while Grammy grew old caring for her three boys through unimaginable hardship. When my uncle and his three boys moved in with her, Grammy helped raise them as well.

When my dad became a widower at age 43, Grammy offered support with her no-nonsense grit and determination. Although she was bedridden, Grammy’s tired heart pumped blood through her veins so she could be present for us. She lived almost a year.

Our family has had its share of tragedy. But I come from a hearty stock of people who never, ever, ever give up. Whenever I’m feeling frustrated or defeated, I think of Grammy and repeat those three reassuring words.

“We’ve got stickability.”