It’s a quiet Saturday night. My girls are tucked in, my husband’s already asleep, and I’m here—writing blog posts in a way I never have before. With my new website on the horizon and year six of Margaret James, I’ve been reflecting on what’s led me here.

While digging through old drafts, I came across something I wrote back in 2019 and never shared. The words stopped me in my tracks.

As a mom and business owner, it’s easy to lose yourself in the day-to-day. But reading this brought me back to the very beginning—why I started this in the first place. It reminded me of the love and legacy that built Margaret James. And it reminded me how much I still love what I do.

This story deserves a place here. Because before anything else—before the weddings, before the films, before the name—there was Margaret.

 

It’s hard to limit this woman to only words on a blog because she was far greater than that. To me, she was my Grandmother and the best dang blueberry muffin baker to ever step foot in a kitchen. Mind you, they were the ‘just add water’ kind, but I swear she did it better than Betty Crocker.

Margaret was a no-nonsense kind of woman; one who walked with God but also washed her mouth with whiskey.  She was a straight shooter with the most loving arms, that were always open for me to run into. Her kisses were plentiful but so were my attempts at avoiding them. She never let me leave her house without a kiss and a hug, even though I was half way to the car when she called me back. Her old lady whiskers would brush my face and I would squirm as she smothered me with her love.

I can remember it like it was yesterday, the day everything changed.

I was in fourth grade on my bus ride home from school. It was the Friday before Halloween and everyone was excited for the weekend. We were on our normal route home when Lester stopped the bus, all fell quiet with wonder. The road was blocked, nothing could be seen past the firetrucks and first responders in front of us. I looked out my window and saw a helicopter above. My 9-year-old self thought “Wow, it must be bad.” Someone was being life flighted. The bus turned around and I was dropped off at my house, earlier than usual. My mom called on her way home from work and I had told her what I saw. We didn’t think much of it – not until my Mom received a phone call.  My Aunt Sis had called my Mom, letting her know that my Grandma had been in an accident and was life flighted to UPMC Presbyterian.

I had unknowingly watched my Grandma Burkey being life flighted.  There was an immediate gut-wrenching feeling when I had heard the news, what could I have done to stop this?

Margaret was parked at the chiropractor when a drunk driver hit her car from behind. Her car looked much like a smashed accordion, pushed up against a telephone pole.

My 5-year-old brother and I carried on our daily lives with our Grandma Pawlikowsky and Aunt switching off, watching us while our parents were at the hospital with my Grandma Burkey. I don’t know that I was aware of what degree her injuries were or how bad it really was.

I was finally able to visit my Grandma, she was still at UPMC in the Intensive Care Unit. My parents warned me that she did not at all look like herself. My Grandma was bruised from head to toe, everything was swollen, and she was only able to blink. Once for no, twice for yes. I sobbed and sobbed, letting her know how sorry I was and that I would have given anything to have her healthy sitting right beside me, giving me all her Grandma kisses I so before dreaded.

The weeks had past and Margaret was well enough to be moved to Westmoreland Regional Hospital. It was a much closer drive for everyone and a move in the right direction – she was getting better. As much of a fighter that my Grandma was, she was also stubborn and strong willed. The frustrations of being on a ventilator, talking through a trachea, only being able to have your thirst quenched by a water swab and the inability to move the limbs that you were so capable of moving months before, took a toll on her. Having to depend on someone constantly when you have a “I’ll just do it myself” mentality, was a hard pill to swallow but was crucial to her incline in health. Margaret’s stubbornness prevailed and her health declined after tugging the feeding tube from its rightful place.

After three months spent in hospitals, Margaret was sent home to be with God.
Five days after her 75th birthday, the school bus dropped my brother and I off at home. No one was home, which was extremely odd being that my Dad worked nights. Minutes after hanging outside, waiting for someone to come home, our parents pulled in the driveway. Then, I knew that my Grandma was no longer with us.

We went inside and I went right up to my room. I believe it was my Mom who told me, but really, she didn’t even have to say a word. Through all of this, I never questioned if my Grandma would survive. I didn’t even get a chance to say good bye. The next few days were grim. At only 35, my Mom was burying her Mother.

18 years later, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of or talk to my Gram. Every now and again my Dad will utter to me “Your Grandma would be proud of you,” and I still have to hold back tears, shrug it off and say, “I know.” Having had nine years with her, even though I would have liked a million more, was more than enough for her to have an impact on me. The love and legacy that she left behind is something I hope to carry on.

When choosing a name for this business, I immediately thought of her. While Margaret James is a love story in itself; Margaret radiates a love and passion that I hope to instill in every single one of my clients. A love and passion for life, family and everyone’s own love story.

I pray that I continue to make her proud.

Grandma, I love you with all my heart, forever and ever.

 

24 years later, I still think about her. I still talk to her. And somehow, through this business, I feel like she’s still part of everything I create. Margaret James isn’t just a name—it’s a promise. A promise to honor love, celebrate family, and preserve the kind of stories that deserve to be passed down. Now, as a mother to two girls of my own, that promise means even more. My daughter Palmer speaks her name—“Grandma Turkey”—without ever having met her, and yet somehow knows her. That’s the power of legacy. If you’re here, reading this, I hope you know just how much it means to me. Your story matters. And I’d be honored to help you hold onto it.