My mother-in-law (insert requisite m-i-l joke here) is coming home from the hospital for the last time today. Well, her body will be. She checked out a while back. The doctors have decided, and we've concurred, that nothing can be achieved by extending what has been an amazing life.
A few weeks shy of her 97th birthday, Daphine was born the day the Spanish Flu outbreak led the NHL to cancel the 1919 Stanley Cup Series. A child of the Depression, she wore potato sack dresses, worked in the tobacco fields and held down two jobs to graduate from Buies Creek Academy, now Campbell University. She chatted with Franklin Roosevelt and several senators, cussed out the Klan when they tried to disrupt an integration meeting, hit a trifecta in her only trip to a horse track ... oh, and did I mention she blew up a 12-seater outhouse at Fort Bragg during World War II? The MPs were looking for Nazi sabateurs for a month after that, never suspecting one of the secretaries tossed a cigarette down the hold and set off some methane.
She loved NASCAR, Wake Forest basketball (them Baptists got to stick together), but I managed to sway her to Clemson football and baseball. She was partial to "that good-looking Johnny Weaver" and thought Ric Flair was a blowhard.
When she first fell ill, doctors said she had maybe a few months. If we were lucky, they said, Daphine would see our daughter graduate eighth grade.
She saw her granddaughter graduate from college. That's how tough she was.
It's been a heck of a run for a heck of a lady. Just praying that her home stretch is quiet.