My Grandma, A Quiet Hero

My grandma, Kathleen, was one of the sweetest, kindest people I’ve ever known. Though quiet in her later years—especially next to my grandfather, who my brother and I called “Grandy,” and who had a big personality—her gentle spirit and inner strength left a lasting impression. Everyone knew her as Dolly, a nickname she’d carried since childhood because she was the smallest of her many sisters. Behind that soft demeanor was a life filled with courage, resilience, and quiet heroism.

Born in Hampshire, England in 1900, Grandma was the youngest of ten children, growing up in a household marked by hardship. Her father was a laborer who struggled with alcoholism, often spending what little money he earned on drink. At times, Grandma witnessed him strike her mother and older brother, and once, he even threatened her and some of her siblings with a gun. It was a difficult and frightening environment, but she emerged from it with kindness and strength, not bitterness.

At just 17, seeking something more, she enlisted in the Women’s Royal Air Force—the original WRAF—during the final years of World War I and served in France, where she met Grandy, who she fell in love with and soon married at 19. She then began working as a scullery maid—humble, grueling work, but she never complained.

Tragedy came early. Her first child was born full-term but passed away during delivery. The midwife had been too afraid to disturb the doctor when complications arose. It was a loss that would shape her, but not defeat her.

During World War II, while Grandy served with the British Expeditionary Force in France—barely escaping back across the Channel as the Germans advanced—Grandma was left to manage the home front. She worried constantly for him, but kept going. To protect her daughter Audrey from the bombing raids, she sent her to a boarding school in the countryside. Later, she pulled her other daughter Pam—my mother—out of the art school she loved so they could temporarily escape the danger together. After a brief stay with old friends in the country, Grandma and my mom returned to London, where the real terror began.

They endured the Blitz, and later, the terrifying V1 and V2 rocket attacks. Grandma spent many nights huddled with my mom and many neighbors and strangers in the subway tunnels, never knowing if Grandy—who refused to seek shelter—would survive the night. Eventually, she sent Mom off to join the Women’s Royal Air Force, just as she herself had once done.

Back in London, Grandma was conscripted as a civilian Fire Warden. After the bombings, she’d patrol the city streets, tasked with locating and reporting fires. It was dangerous work, and the city was in ruins, but she did it without hesitation.

After the war, Grandma faced yet another painful goodbye when my mom left for the United States to possibly marry a man she barely knew—my dad. Then, in 1957, Grandma followed. She left behind everything she knew—her home, her friends, her sisters—to start anew in a foreign country.

But Grandma adapted. She soon found work at Blue Cross/Blue Shield and, well into her 60s, proudly earned her high school diploma. She was smart, determined, and never stopped growing.

To me, she was a fun and loving grandmother. She always had a butterscotch candy tucked away or a little present in her bag. She’d bring a cookie for the dog and play the “round and round the garden” game with me until I burst out laughing. She had a quiet but sharp sense of humor, and I used to joke that she looked like Dracula when she wore really red lipstick. She’d laugh along, especially when my brother and I teased her by messing up the pillows she tried to adjust behind her back while sitting in her favorite spot on our couch.

Even when her memory began to fade, Grandma kept smiling. She laughed at herself, never lost her sweet disposition, and never became a burden.

She died in her sleep, just as she had lived—peacefully, and without a bother to anyone.

She was, without question, the best grandmother anyone could ever ask for.