Everyone wishes that they could have a mirror that shows them only their best qualities. I am lucky enough to have one. Not only do my big, chocolaty-brown eyes stare back at me, but the face shape is almost identical—there’s no mistaking the similarity. I see a soft-spoken but self-assured woman gazing at me with interminable love and understanding. For a very long time, I saw two separate people—my grandmother and me. But once she showed me just how alike we are, I began to love my body, and myself as a person. She is the epitome of one of my favorite Bible verses: “She is clothed in strength and dignity and lives without fear of the future” –Proverbs 31:25.

Doniza “Doni” Dodig was born on April 16th, 1921 in Kansas City, Kansas to a modest Serbian family. She always said that there was no woman that influenced her quite like her mother. Perhaps she is the reason that my grandma grew to become the infallible matriarch that we all revere her as.

When she was 18, her hard-working father passed away, and she was forced to drop out of high school to begin work and help her mother and older brothers survive. It was 1939, and the Great Depression was well underway in America. Not long after, the US entered World War II, and she readily suited up to join the growing ranks of women working in bomber plants. She worked on the planes for the soldiers until the day the Japanese surrendered. When asked about it, a sly smile decorates her face as she recalls how her take-charge attitude made sure that every plane was absolutely perfect—but that she earned many a resentful glance on the side.

She met my grandfather, George Solich, Sr., at a Serbian Orthodox church in Kansas City during the war, and nothing could stop her from falling in love with him—not even the two (rich) men that had previously proposed. They were married at St. George’s Church in 1948 and moved to Pueblo, Colorado. He called her his “Daisy”, and the nickname survives to this day.

Doni and George were blessed with twin boys Mitchell and Michael in 1950, closely followed by Gregory in 1954, Geoff in 1959, and finally, my father, George Jr., (notice a pattern?) in 1961. The happy couple moved again, this time to Colorado Springs with five little boys tagging along. With my grandma’s guidance, they grew into successful men full of integrity.

I was born on October 11th, 1995 at Memorial Hospital in Houston, Texas. Doni and George were right there with my parents, ready to welcome me as their ninth grandchild. The following May, George Sr. died of a stroke at age 76. Two weeks later, my aunt gave birth to twin boys. Not only was Doni coping with the death her beloved soul mate, but the arrival of the twins was a reminder of the beginning of her own family. Yet she remained selfless and engaged, despite the incredible roller coaster of emotion she was feeling. Family always took precedence in her life.

The memories I have of my first ten years of life are predominantly of the time spent at my grandma’s house. Thanksgiving and Christmas remain the most vivid. Each of her five boys would arrive a day or two before, lugging duffels and children alike up the steep stone steps, ducking under the superfluous amount of hanging flowerpots, and holding open the screen door just long enough for the little ones to scuttle inside. The plastic singing wreath sporting big bushy eyebrows and a red bow tie hung on the back of the door, and always creeped me out, no matter how old I got. No matter the time of day, or whether anyone was hungry or not, there was always food on the table to greet us. Cooking for five full-grown men, their wives, and thirteen grandchildren might prove irksome for some, but I always marveled at the pure joy she reaped from filling our bellies.

I am told that my grandpa was an early riser, and having taken breakfast orders the night before, he would shuffle around in the kitchen in his ratty, scrambled egg-dotted bathrobe long before the sun rose. By the time everyone had stumbled into the kitchen, after a very cramped night of having to share a mattress with at least three other people, breakfast had been served. My grandma carried on this tradition, welcoming us with mountains of still-sizzling sausage and bacon, enough fruit to feed a small town, and a heaping platter of gooey, cheesy scrambled eggs, lovingly dubbed “Grandpa’s Famous Eggs”. She’d grab each of us as we filed into the kitchen, plopping us down at the old wooden table, our hair frizzy and pillow marks etched on our cheeks. She never sat down to eat with us; she had always snacked on a bit of everything before the plates had been retrieved from the cupboard.

“Save some bacon for me, Clay!” whined Jordan, reaching impatiently for the plate.

“Hannah, stop hogging the syrup!” growled Cooper as he snatched the sticky bottle from her grasp.

“Kids, remember to eat your fruit!” ordered my grandma, as if we could possibly miss the platter that she had strategically placed in the center of the table.
We sat under the ancient blue and white ceramic plaque on the wall that read Dobro Nam Dolsi - Welcome to my home.

During the day, my cousins and I would entertain ourselves by climbing the precariously gnarled trees in the front yard, vaulting onto the low-sloping roof after a running start, or diving headfirst onto a sled that carried us down the seemingly vertical hill and into the street. We were always competing to see who could climb the highest, jump the furthest, and stay on the sled the longest. Our proudest accomplishment, however, was when we collaborated in order to help our grandma. Wild deer roam all over Colorado Springs, known for eating the flowers that adorn backyard gardens. A glum look crossed my grandma’s face whenever she discovered that her garden had yet again fallen victim to these wild flower-killers. My cousins and I were all around the age of eight, and to us, a genius idea meant one hyphenated word, and two syllables: “sup-sup”. We spent the morning filling a large plastic bowl with dandelions, grass, mud, and water, carefully measuring to make sure that our plan would work. We carried the heavy, dirty bowl across the lawn, the now murky water sloshing all over our sweaty t-shirts, smelling of brilliance. We went to bed that night knowing that because we had prepared an alternative dinner for the deer, we had repaid my grandma for everything she’d ever given us. My uncle ended up pouring out half of it so that we’d still feel good about ourselves.

As I got older, I began to see more of who my grandma is as a person. She had five sons over six feet tall that could protect her better than all of the president’s secret service agents—not that she’d ever need that. She is just over five feet of pure strength and unwavering finesse. She’s opinionated and fiercely loyal. The Denver Broncos are her team. She’ll yell at the screen louder than her sons, convinced that the refs are simply ignoring her. She’s half blind now, but still insists on getting herself around the house and attending every family function from opening night of the school play, to dance recitals, and of course, every graduation. When complimented, she insists that she is simply the luckiest woman alive. She lingers long after I go home, her cloyingly sweet Chanel perfume clinging to my shirt.

I had a very turbulent first year of high school, to say the very least. I didn’t have many friends, I was absolutely terrified of boys, I didn’t deal well with conflict or confrontation, and I was battling a second bout of depression and social anxiety. My grandma was with me through it all—she was my anchor through one of the hardest years of my life. I’ll never forget a particular night when we had her over for dinner—my dad had prepared everything to perfection; he would serve his mother nothing less. I was particularly upset about a girl that was giving me a hard time at field hockey practice that day. My grandma looked deep into my eyes, and I felt the connection that I had always loved—something as simple as our shared eye color always made me feel closer to her. She placed her soft, worn hand on mine and said in her low, euphonious voice, “Ako nevolie nek negleda” (If they don’t like it, they don’t have to look). She gave me a soft smile, the corners of her wrinkled mouth telling me that I was worthy, and because she had uttered this truth, I knew that no one could hurt me again without my permission.

From that moment on, I wanted nothing more than to emulate her. She was the ultimate matriarch—compassionate, independent, and strong. I saw that the things I hated about myself, I loved about my grandma. We are both built more thickly than my mother and my younger sister—we have larger thighs and hips—but through her, I learned to love that. Most people attempt to get rid of wrinkles. My grandma wears hers like an expensive silk shawl. When they begin to appear on me, I will wear them with pride.

My grandma has always told me that I’m beautiful, inside and out, but for the longest time, I never believed her. I thought that as my grandma, she was obligated to say that.

“Ohhhh my Goddddd…you are just beautiful!” she’d observe as I’d walk downstairs after getting ready for church.
“Thanks, Gramma,” I’d offer her a half smile and hug her hello, but the words meant nothing to me.
Eventually, I came to realize that she truly believed what she wanted me to believe. After all, my grandma has good taste, and who was I to try and prove her wrong? Through her, I came to understand that “You are fearfully and wonderfully made” –Psalms 139:14
Now, when I look in the mirror, I like what I see. I like that I look like her, and I try to live my life like she lives hers. The ultimate accomplishment would be if I could become half of the grandmother that she has been to me.