Thursday Thirteen - Grandma Edition

1. Every June 11, I stop and do the math again. She’d be 103 this year, which feels impossible and also exactly right. Some people stay present long after they’re gone. Today is my maternal grandmother's birthday.

2. When I think of childhood, I’m at her kitchen table with Campbell’s chicken noodle soup steaming in front of me and a Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pie (known to us grandkids as a Grandaddy Cookie) waiting its turn. That table was my infirmary, my library, my safe harbor.

3. She had already raised five children by the time I arrived, with another one coming a year after me, yet she still had patience left over for every grandchild who wandered through her door.

4. On sick days she wrapped me in one of Aunt Susie’s afghans, pulled me into her lap, and rocked while she sang “Daisy, Daisy.” The chair creaked, her voice hummed, and I drifted off like it was the most natural thing in the world.

5. If I wasn’t too sick, I camped on the couch with tissues while we watched The Price Is Right, Dark Shadows, and The Guiding Light. She could pick up more channels than we could in the country, which felt like magic.

6. At 2 p.m. sharp, the house went still. That was when she talked to “Mama Fore,” and unless you were actively bleeding, you waited.

7. My favorite part of sick days was reading. She let me loose on the World Book Encyclopedias, Nancy Drew, Little House, The Silver Skates, Five Little Peppers - anything I could reach and wanted to read. I read the encyclopedia for fun, and she never once acted like that was strange.

8. She only had a fourth‑grade education, but she valued knowledge like it was oxygen. She read the newspaper front to back, even the grocery ads, and she read it aloud to me until I could read it myself at four. I’ve been reading The Roanoke Times ever since.

9. Her house ran on small rituals: Friday hair appointments at Aunt Neva’s, walking three blocks and crossing a four‑lane road like it was nothing, sometimes with us trailing behind on bikes. Wash clothes on Mondays. Change the bed linens on Saturdays. Have dinner ready for Grandpa's arrival from work by 4 p.m. on the dot. Those rituals brought comfort in an ever-changing world.

10. The rag bag in the hallway closet was its own universe. Old sheets and fabric scraps became doll blankets, superhero capes, and whatever else our imaginations demanded. Whether we put anything back is another story.

11. In the summers, I walked with her into downtown Salem. That mile and a half felt like an expedition. We kids bought balsa airplanes or paddle balls with our saved‑up change, and she always treated us to snow cones at Brooks Byrd Pharmacy. I picked blue every time.

12. She lived through losses she didn’t talk about: her parents, her husband, siblings, and later, my mother. When I was fifteen and showed up in my prom dress, she called my mother afterward and cried because I had thought to come. I was her oldest grandchild.

13. Even now, when I’m lonesome, I talk to her. She doesn’t answer out loud, but I feel like she listens. She always did. I sure wish she was still just a phone call away.

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Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here if you want to read other Thursday Thirteens and/or play along. I've been playing for a while, and this is my 963rd time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday. Or so sayth the Blogger counter, anyway.