Missing Grandma

Today I am missing my grandmother. I am not sure why, exactly, except that I would like to talk to her. I have things to tell her.

My grandmother always had time for me. It made no difference when I called her or dropped by. She stopped whatever she was doing and spoke with me. She was a great fount of common sense knowledge learned by life's never-ending lessons. I valued that. I still do, although as one of the older generation myself now perhaps I don't listen as well as I should to my elders. (Yes, I still have elders. I'm not that old.)

Grandma had a fourth grade education, I think it was, but she read a lot. A set of World Book Encyclopedias was one of her proudest possessions. I could sit and read them if I was careful. I could not have food or drink in my hands when I did so. I am not sure how many children actually sat and read encyclopedias, but I did. I suppose few do that today, what with all the answers online.

She also had other books that I read, like Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, and the Little House on the Prairie books. I also found Nancy Drew books at Grandma's house (I think they belonged to my aunt).

My grandmother made chocolate pudding for us when we were children, the real kind with the skin on it.  It was a treat, not an everyday purchase you could make at the market like it is now (Hello, Jello Pudding in my refrigerator). Sometimes she would let us have a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cookie, but those were only for special times. They were actually called "Granddaddy cookies" because my grandfather carried one in his lunch each day. I had to be in tears and bleeding to earn a Granddaddy cookie.

She spoiled us, my brother and me, but not too much. She was, after all, also raising two boys who were not that different in age than I was at the time (one is actually a year younger than I).

My mother died before my grandmother did. I have often wondered how she felt, losing her first child like that. My mother was only 56 when she passed away. How young that seems to me now as I approach that age. How young did it seem to my grandmother, I wonder? She would have been 77 when my mother passed away. Seventy-seven no longer seems so old to me, either. Does 56 seem young to someone who is in their 70s? Anyway, I can't imagine how painful it must have been to see her daughter die of pancreatic cancer at such a young age. I'm not sure I was there enough for her when that happened, but of course I was also grieving the loss of my mother. Knowing my grandmother, she understood that. She was good that way.

On my grandmother's deathbed she saw my mother. She told me she was talking to her. But she never told me what she said.

This is not a special date or anything with regards to my grandmother, though the slight greenish tinge to the grass reminds me of her. I remember how much she looked forward to spring. She'd always wait for the robins to appear, and point them out to me when they gathered on the lawn. "Warm weather will be here soon," she would say. Even now I look for that first robin that indicates spring is on its way. I have yet to see one this year.

Later, she'd tend to her peonies, which always had magnificent blooms. She had them in rows on each side of the back yard. The bees loved them. She gave us jars for lightning bug, and long pieces of thread for tying to June bugs (neither of which would be considered politically correct these days, but that was the time I grew up in).

Grandmas can be very special people. I know not everyone has a good grandmother, and that's unfortunate. I hope those people have other special women in their lives who have held them up and helped them out somewhere a long the line.



*A little tribute to a wonderful woman in my life, in honor of March being National Women's History Month.*