The Love They Gave

My legs are crossed underneath me as I sit on the floral bedspread. A cup filled with Diet Coke sizzles on the bedside table. A movie sits paused on the TV in front of me.

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It’s a Friday night, I’m 8 years old, and I’m staying the night at my grandparents' house – my dad’s parents.

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I can hear my grandmother, Sugie, walking around the kitchen downstairs, searching for a bowl while the popcorn kernels burst open in the microwave. After a few minutes, I heard her make her way toward me. She greets me with a smile and a big bowl of fresh popcorn, placing it next to me with some napkins. She reaches for the remote to start the movie.

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It could have been several different movies: Maybe we were continuing our “Harry Potter” marathon. Maybe she was showing me “Mamma Mia!,” one of her favorite musicals. Regardless of whatever lit up the screen, we would surely have a great time.

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A few months later, I’m at my grandmother Nan’s house for a sleepover – my mom’s mom. While Sugie’s house was the definition of grandmother florals, Nan’s house was decorated with more neutral browns and tans. She had the big box TVs, the ones where if you touched the screen, you could feel the static.

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I probably spent the day accompanying Nan while she worked – she ran a cleaning business – or we went to the movies and got Steak ‘n Shake after.

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I watch “Codename: Spy Kids” or “The Powerpuff Girls” while I wait for her to come to bed. In the morning, I wake up to something I don’t recognize, like shows the networks played early when the children weren’t awake yet.

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The funny thing is that I hated sleepovers when I was a kid. Yet, their houses were the only places where I could have a successful sleepover. I can’t explain exactly why, but my theory is that because I spent so much time at their houses, they felt like second homes to me.

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I grew up with a small family circle; I only saw my distant relatives around the holidays. Both pairs of aunts and uncles and first cousins live out of state. So, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. My grandmothers introduced me to my current interests and passions, and they shaped many parts of my personality.

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They both passed at pivotal moments in my life, but I would not be who I am today without them.

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Sugie

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Susan “Sugie” Fostine Powers was born Aug. 3, 1947, in Hamilton, Ohio. I had a speech impediment as a kid, so “Susan” ended up coming out as “Sugie.”

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She had a sister, Joy, and a brother, Dennis. She graduated from the Hamilton School District and enjoyed water skiing at Coney Island and roller skating at Tri-Skateland as a kid. She met her future husband, Charles “Chas” Powers, at Tri-Skateland, as he lived above the rink.

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Sugie’s house had floral wallpaper, and a bird feeder sat outside her kitchen window. We’d spend our breakfasts watching the birds have theirs, and we loved seeing red cardinals fly up. She had photos of her family everywhere, and there was always a preserved rose with a gold finish next to mine. I made sure to get that rose last year, and it sits in my room next to a jewelry case she gave me.

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She had three different careers throughout her life, but the main one was as a court stenographer at the Butler County Prosecutor's Office for roughly 30 years. She also worked at Avon and Lakota Plains Junior High School.

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As an adult, she enjoyed line dancing, driving in her Corvette with Chas and going to the lake. But above all, she enjoyed spending time with her family and friends.

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She had two children: Fawn (my aunt) and Charles “Chuck” (my dad). Her other grandchild besides me is Fawn’s son, Paxton.

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Sugie died from breast cancer on March 29, 2022, at 74 years old. She had been battling it on and off for about 10 years; I remember her showing me some of her wigs.

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I was a junior in high school. It was a Tuesday, and my mom came into my room before I went to bed, her arms crossed as she approached me.

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“Sugie just died,” she told me while nodding.

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It felt like a punch to the gut.

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I knew Sugie had been moved to a nursing home. I had gone to her house a few days before she moved to celebrate my birthday. She looked different, and I could tell she wasn’t well. The COVID-19 pandemic made it so that I didn’t see her for some time. And when I did, her health steadily declined.

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I was a year away from graduating high school, from going off to college to begin some of the best years of my life. I was about to experience so many “firsts” and so many “lasts,” and she wasn’t there for any of it.

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She didn’t see me graduate. She didn’t see me become editor-in-chief of my high school newspaper and pursue journalism in college. She didn’t see me perform in my high school’s spring musical, “Mamma Mia!” She didn’t see the dance solo I did during the show to “Slipping Through My Fingers.” She didn’t get to see “Wicked” become a movie.

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I was excited when the movie was announced because it was one of the first musicals I saw live, thanks to Sugie. I started doing theater at 5 years old, but Sugie continued to grow that passion in me by showing me some of her favorites, like “Mamma Mia!” and “Wicked.”

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I saw “Wicked” a few days after its release over Thanksgiving break with my aunt Mandy and my mom. On the drive to AMC Theatres, one thought floated around in my mind. 

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She should be here. Sugie should be here.

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I knew I’d cry at some point during the movie; it was an emotional story, and the fact that the person who first showed it to me wouldn’t be sitting next to me was hard to process.

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But I wasn’t expecting the tears to flow at the opening image of Elphaba’s hat, as the beginning notes of “No One Mourns the Wicked” played. I wasn’t expecting to cry during “Popular” as Ariana Grande jumped and spun around the room. I wasn’t expecting the tears to silently and involuntarily slip out during random parts of the movie.

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I cried seven times in total.

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I cried for her. I cried because she never got to see one of her favorite musicals hit the big screen. I cried because she didn’t get to relive the magic with her granddaughter. I cried because she wasn’t with me.

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Sugie also introduced me to “Harry Potter.” After showing me the first movie, she bought me all seven books and sent me personalized Hogwarts acceptance letters, starting on my 11th birthday. When we watched the first movie, she made me cover my eyes when Harry talked to the snake because she knew I was terrified of them.

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That’s the kind of person Sugie was. She always cared about others and their needs.

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“She always made sure that everybody was always taken care of before she even took care of herself,” my dad said.

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She was fun and extremely loving. She had so much love to give, and she was generous with it. She taught me to make sure everyone in my life knew I loved them. I try never to leave or end a conversation without a “Love you!”

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I love others because Sugie loved me.

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Sugie and Nan were pretty different, but they had two things in common: They always took me to the movies.

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I think this was just an easy activity to do with a child. But it sparked my love for movies, and especially movie theaters. I know they’ve become a little pricey these days, but oftentimes, I’d rather go to one than watch a movie at home. There are more pros to streaming movies, but there's something about theaters that comforts me.

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Maybe it's the feeling of community you get while experiencing a movie with a bunch of strangers, everyone feeling and seeing the same things. Or maybe it’s because of how often I went there with my grandmothers.

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Nan

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Pamela “Nan” Pater was born May 25, 1952, in Hamilton, Ohio. She thought “grandma” and “nanna” sounded too old for her, so she compromised with “Nan.”

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I told someone she was my aunt once, and I still have no idea why I said that. I think “aunt Nan” sounded better than “grandma Nan” in my mind, so I just called her Aunt Nan without knowing that an aunt and grandma were two different things. She didn’t mind because it made her sound young.

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Nan was the youngest of four other siblings: George, Jim, Bob and Shirley. She was born when Shirley was in her 20s. She graduated from the Hamilton School District. She met her future husband, Timothy Pater, because they lived across the street from each other in high school. Her best friend was Janelle Klein, who commented on her online obituary, “my forever friend.” Nan played the violin, too.

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She was a stay-at-home mom for a while but worked mostly administrative or secretarial jobs throughout her life for Ohio Casualty and Wendy’s corporate. She also had a cleaning business; oftentimes, I’d accompany her when she cleaned the Reading Rock Selection Center. I’d play with toys and explore the building while she worked.

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She had two daughters: Amanda “Mandy” (my aunt) and Danielle “Dani” (my mom). She was married to Timothy for about 28 years before they separated during my mom’s senior year of high school. Her grandchildren include Logan and Noah – my aunt’s sons – and me.

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Nan also died from breast cancer on Sept. 2, 2015. She was 63.

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I was in middle school when it happened. My mom told me while we sat in her room. Through tears and laughter, she said one of the last things Nan said was she loved me more than she did my mom and her sister.

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I didn’t think that was true, but my mom insists she said that to this day. Apparently, Nan said it's easier to love grandchildren because you don’t have to raise them yourself: You get to love them and spoil them, and then the parents get to deal with the messy bits.

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That’s not to say Nan never disciplined or did any hard work. She was independent and strong. She was loving and supportive and never missed one game or event for her kids or me. But she was tough and had high expectations. She expected you to do the right thing all the time.

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“‘You're a loving person, but I'm a little scared of you,’” my mom said about how people viewed Nan. But when it came down to it, no one was ever really scared of her.

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While I didn’t inherit her scary demeanor, I inherited her height. She was around 5 feet, 2 inches tall, and I’m 5 feet tall.

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Nan’s influence didn’t take effect until recent years. I’ve always been a people pleaser, and eventually, I grew tired of being seen as a pushover.

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I also used to be pretty codependent. It wasn’t that I couldn’t function on my own: It was that I felt uncomfortable doing so. When it was time to move into my first-year dorm, I was excited to be independent for once. I think that thrill of independence was Nan, cheering me on from above.

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The other thing Nan and Sugie had in common was their love for their family.

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They taught me to love and appreciate my family, even if we disagree or they annoy me. But they also taught me it’s OK to put myself first. At the end of the day, family is family.

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Anyone who knows me knows I’m an extremely sentimental person. I have almost full memory boxes, and I recently took up scrapbooking to clean some of them out. It’s odd to me that when my grandmothers died, I didn’t think about taking something of theirs for memory’s sake.

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Sure, my mom gave me some of Nan’s bells from her collection when she died, and we inherited her giant nutcracker collection too. And before Sugie passed, she bought me a jewelry set with a necklace, ring and earrings made with my birthstone, aquamarine, as a graduation gift since she knew she wouldn't make it until then.

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But I didn’t take the initiative to go through their things and pull what I wanted. I was so focused on quickly getting past the grief that I didn’t stop to think about having a keepsake. I don’t blame myself for it; I had lost two of the most important people in my life.

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A goal I’ve set for myself this year is to learn the route to their graves at the funeral home where they’re buried. I want to go alone one day and talk to them. I want to update them on everything.

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I want to tell them about how I’m pursuing journalism as a career and all the aspirations I have for my future. I want to tell them I’m the opinion editor at The Miami Student newspaper, and I’m also editing for The Miami Student Magazine.

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I want to tell them about how important dance has become to me, how I’ve started taking up executive positions at my dance organization at Miami and how I’m considering running for president my senior year.

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I want to tell them about all the new friends I’ve made. I want them to know about all the petty drama and annoying boyfriends I’ve dealt with.

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When I think about all that's happened since then, I feel sad that they’ve missed so much. But did they really miss out if I can feel them in my everyday life?

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I can hear Nan speaking to me when the wind chimes on my front porch rings. I can hear her in the loud sneezes from my mom and the laughs of her and aunt Mandy. I can see Nan’s eyes when my mom widens hers. I see her in aunt Mandy’s smile.

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I can hear Sugie in the way my dad laughs and how he greets people with a big “Hey!” I can see her smile in his. I hear her in the way my dad talks, with care and love dripping off each word.

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I know they’re checking in on me when I see a red cardinal fly by.

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Even if I think they’re gone, they’re never really gone. They live in my aunts. They live in my parents.

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They live in me.