This blog post is adapted from a column published July 5, 1998 in the Amarillo Globe-News.

“You know your grandmother died on the Fourth of July just to make sure we would remember her.”

So said my wife on July 4, 1978, the date of my grandmother’s death. She was right. I do remember that date. All of us in our family remember it.

And oh, do I remember this remarkable woman. My grandmother was an immigrant, but was as much of an American as any native-born U.S. citizen I’ve ever known. Her life, as well as that of her beloved husband, is a testament to the American Dream, the one in which people attain freedom and relative prosperity in a land they embraced as their own.

My grandmother’s life provides a cautionary tale to those who think we have too many “foreigners” living here, who forget this land was built by people just like my grandmother. Her life, while it didn’t produce great material wealth for her or her family, did produce a family whose members have fought for their country, who have lived honorably and prospered in the face of hardship, heartache and tragedy.

A slice of my grandmother’s story is worth sharing on the Fourth of July.

Her name was Diamondoula Panisoy Filipu. We called her “Yiayia,” which is Greek for “grandmother.” This endearment did not come just from the 10 grandchildren who knew her. Neighbor kids — and their parents — called her Yiayia. So did the grocery clerks down the street. Same for the mail carrier and the milkman.

Yiayia was proud of her Greek heritage and she touted it whenever possible. She was equally proud of being an American. She stood in line to vote at every election. I’ll repeat: Every election.

Yiayia was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, the kind we refer to in Texas as a “yellow dog Democrat.” She truly would vote for a yellow dog than vote for a Republican.

She prayed for Franklin Delano Roosevelt every Sunday in church. She displayed pictures of John F. Kennedy on a kitchen credenza. She voted in 1972 for George McGovern even though she could barely pronounce his name. I took her to vote that Election Day and asked, “Who did you vote for, Yiayia?” She looked at me sideways and said, “Nee-xohn,” laughed and then assured that of course she voted for the Democrat.

Returning to the “old country” never was an option for Yiayia. The old country was Turkey. She was an ethnic Greek whom the Turks expelled from the island of Marmara after World War I. The Greeks did the same to Turks living in Greece. Yiayia set foot in Greece one time: a brief stop in Athens en route from Istanbul to New York. She had no desire to return. Yiayia was “home” in the United States of America.

My “Papou,” George, died on Jan, 22, 1950 after visiting his month-old second-born grandson — me — at my parents’ home in Portland, Ore. He suffered a heart attack after pushing his car out of a snowdrift. Yiayia mourned him the rest of her life.

She kept on being proud of her standing as an American. She never took for granted the wonderful life she and Papou carved out for themselves and their family in this country.

Nor did she take for granted the political system that gave her a voice in the very government she adored. Yiayia and Papou were socialists at heart. They loved big, benevolent government. When given the chance to vote, she exercised that right with a gusto few of us know today.

Yiayia believed she may been more of an American those who were born here. She chose to come here, she would say. Native-born Americans were citizens by accident of birth; they made no sacrifice. They didn’t struggle with finding their way across a vast country with no knowledge of the language spoken there.

My uncle recalled this story about Yiayia’s journey to her new home in America: “When she got off the ship in New York, she had no idea how to get to Portland other than she had to take a train. She asked someone how to get to the train station. He told her where it was and asked her where she was going. She told him ‘Portland.’ He said it was only about an eight-hour ride.

“Five days later, she arrived in the other Portland, the one in Oregon.”

Intrepid? They should put Yiayia’s picture next to the word in the dictionary.

My wife may be right about Yiayia’s death. It is as if she planned it that way. It is easy to write about someone as unforgettable as her nearly four decades after her death. It also is easy to remember that she stood for so much of what we celebrate today.

Yiayia embodied unbridled love of God, family and her country.

I remember her as a great American.