I have so many memories of my maternal grandmother. I used to spend a lot of time with her–cooking, playing cards, watching television, just talking. She and my grandfather lived on a farm, our closest neighbors at over a mile away.
We went trout fishing together. We shopped at junk stores. She took me with her to home demonstration meetings and to her woman’s club. She taught me to play bridge and canasta.
Her crooked index finger would scrape the spoon of cookie dough clean as a whistle. She introduced me to pimento cheese spread onto graham crackers. She could cook a meal for 20 as easy as for 2.
She smoked like a chimney and had a jolly, slightly naughty cackling laugh. Nearsighted and hard of hearing in her left ear, she could pull weeds and pick blackberries to beat the band.
She read books and went to Sunday school. She cooked the Festival dinner at church every fall and let me make the toast for the dressing. She read the Beatitudes to me; she especially liked “Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God” and she loved babies.
She sent me postcards from their winter trips to Florida and wrote to me when I went to camp and off to college. She recovered from two horrible accidents and had the softest waddlish neck imaginable.
Today she would have been 111. I think of her, so often, my sweet Granny, and when I do it is with love.
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