On a snowy night in 1907, a midwife arrived at the home of Sophie and Karl Weisgerber to deliver their fourth child. Around midnight, the second of February, the baby was born. She was named Augusta and would be called Gussie for much of her life.

Since I can remember, I've been told I'm her favorite grandchild. I'm also the only one, so this compliment is truly relative.

My maternal grandmother did not receive a typical endearment from me. At the highly intellectual age of nine months, for reasons yet unknown, I began to call her "Huba."

Huba's stories of her youth were woven into my own upbringing. She told of her mother, three brothers, her sister, and their friends. She told of meeting and marrying my grandfather, Fred Mai.

My grandmother learned to crochet at the age of 8, and she taught me when I was 9. This was a gift, not only of a skill fostered, but also of a philosophy. Believe in yourself and give of yourself to others, her ever-moving hands said, stitch after stitch. This message was not only affirmed through handmade gifts for family and friends, but especially in the 6,500 accumulated volunteer hours preparing lap robes for patients at WakeMed Hospital.

Three weeks before she died, Huba stopped crocheting.

She had 148 more days before her 100th birthday when she passed away Sept. 6, 2006. I was with her in her hospital room as she peacefully left this world behind.

Feb. 2, 2007 found Mom and I at the cemetery tying a balloon adorned with "100" to the flower vase. We each released a plain balloon into the sky and watched until the pastel dots slipped beyond our sight.

I have missed my grandmother as I imagine the Grand Canyon would mourn for the Colorado River, a force of nature it has always known. I am also grateful that she did not have to face the journey ahead, had she lived.

I was accustomed to being necessary. For nearly five years she had happily resided at a local assisted-living community, Outlook Pointe at Northridge, where the staff and caregivers loved her as their own. Yet there were hearing aid batteries to buy, home-cooked favorites to bring, and, especially, hands to hold.

My grandmother used to tell me of when her father died the year she turned 12. She'd wistfully describe her mother fashioning her summer white hat into a black one using shoe polish. It rained at the burial and dark rivulets stained her dress.

Grief is much like that dress. You look upon yourself and see that what has happened will forever change you. In an instant, an old way ends and a new one begins. You give your soul permission to be dormant until it is again ready to fully reawaken.

I learned this the first day of spring six years ago when my Dad died. Gradually, I began to recognize in myself what my grandmother had long carried within her. She never forgot black stains on a white dress, but she learned to set her shoulders back into the present and to raise a steady gaze to the future.

She also never stopped loving and missing the people who went before her.

It is a new season now, one of planting in soil which has stored its strength through winter. As I turn the ground over, I shall be tender with both the roots and the seedlings. As the flowers bloom Mom and I will sit on the porch Dad built and crochet the way Huba taught us.

I have a feeling at least two souls will drop in from time to time.