September 18, 2025: The Gentle Anchor

Something you should know about my grandmother.

Her name was Hilda Forrester, but I called her Nannie. I was 34 when she passed and never once saw her get mad. Peace seemed to rest within her.

Growing up, her house served as my safe place. Endless meals… like French toast, country-style steak, pinto beans, veggies, brown-and-serve rolls, mac and cheese. A pitcher of sweet tea and a box of Little Debbie oatmeal cookies always waited in the kitchen.

Most weekends were spent with her and Paw Paw, focusing on three things: drawing cartoons, watching TV, and listening to music. This was before I could drive and got busy doing teenager stuff.

A couple of months ago while visiting my hometown, I uncovered a stack of letters she had written me when I went away to college. She faithfully mailed me 2-3 handwritten pages and gave me updates, addressing them to “Brian Allen.”

For 16 years, she lived as a widow. During that time, she never grumbled. Her heart was her family, and I knew she thought about me every day.

Peace lived in Nannie.

Thinking of her makes it still live in me.