I confess, I have a favorite grandparent. If this were a trivia question, my husband would answer correctly. He knows. Other family members probably know too.
Grandma Alice
My Grandma Alice was my favorite…a character with an infectious smile. I’m accused of emulating her Spyker spunk which probably explains our connection. I wear it proudly. As the oldest granddaughter, she and I were blessed with memories that are beyond words.
There’s rarely a day that goes by that I don’t think of her. I loved all four of my grandparents dearly. Ruth, Elwood, Joe and Alice were present my entire childhood. Vivid memories and stories I was honored share when we celebrated their lives. What a blessing to have four living grandparents until age 22! Such a gift of time and yet I’d love to start over. Ask them questions, listen to their stories and write them down.
What strikes me about my memories of Grandma Alice is that few are about the presents she gave me or physical items. In fact, I struggle to remember specific gifts. One stuffed animal I remember well because of how she gave it to me. It was the experience, not the stuff. 🙂
Grandma’s House
Mostly, I remember her character, faith, baking, card playing skills and her endless attempts to teach me to play bridge. In her home, I learned to love coffee at an early age, not to mention indulge in the day’s baked goods. I also learned the gift of hospitality. Fresh coffee greeted everyone, any time of day, and a full pitcher of iced tea too.
The back screen door displayed a welcome sign where you entered….through the garage! Everyone in town knew to use this door. After a while, we hardly noticed the loud banging noise of the wooden screen door. I recall as a kid having to stand on the edge of the step to reach the handle and open it at the same time. When the great-grandchildren received a brand new handle near the bottom of the door, my cousins and I hassled my grandpa. The door handle was intended to ease their reach and prevent injuries, while I argued that the balancing act represented a rite of passage in Grandma’s house. It required skill to enter her kitchen but was worth the effort.
Grandma’s Baking
Endless baked goods spilled out of her kitchen. There were raisin filled cookies, whoopie pies, “Toll House” cookies, cereal cookies, date bars, bread, rolls, pies, fudge, sand tarts and more. And always something in the freezer.
I loved her homemade bread. It was sweet, then toasted and topped with a salty melted butter. We dipped it in her homemade hot chocolate that was cooked on the stove with real milk. What I’d give to sit at her table again on a cold winter day with this in front of me!
For as long as I can remember, Sundays meant church and a noon lunch at Grandma’s house. Followed by afternoon card playing with my mom and I. In November, the cards went in the drawer and the three of us began the Sand Tart Baking Marathon. A triple batch of dough that required, three bakers and weeks of baking. Dozens of cookies to share with family and friends while my dad, uncle and grandfather watched football and snuck a few from the table during commercials.
Grandma’s Cooking
Grandma was notorious for substituting ingredients in dinner recipes based on what she had on hand. (I do this too.) Sometimes this worked out and sometimes it was a complete disaster. My dad, uncle and grandfather gave her a hard time but always in good fun. Caring for her family was a serving opportunity that my grandma embraced daily with no complaints. I aspire to one day be this selfless.
Several days a week, I walked to her house after school. My mom worked, so of course, Grandma included dad and I for dinner. This was also a given anytime a schedule conflict arose for my parents. The village was real! I marvel at how much simpler life was then and how blessed I am for this time.
In later years, when cancer was winning, she prepared. She rallied to play cards with me just a few days before her final stay in the hospital. Re-wrote her address book because deciphering her handwriting was a skill that only a few of us had. Organized her recipes, and added notes telling us where to find the large pot to make a batch of her homemade spaghetti sauce.
Not Enough Time
What I believe we all cherish is the time spent with loved ones and not the stuff. The time creates the memories. The memories outlast all the stuff. The only question is, how long we get to have with them.
Cancer cut short our time. I remember visiting the hospital after class and sitting with her late one evening. Memories of that night are as clear now as they were 20 years ago. I remember the newspaper articles I read, her last breath and how she looked at me in her final moment. Even then, it was not enough time.
There was so much more to share with her…my college graduation from a school she loved, a Christian wedding to a young man she knew and loved, my first job, first house and first child. My son, her great-grandson who shares her left-handedness. A boy who loves Grange Fair as much as she did.
It was not enough time to learn how to make her homemade bread, not enough time to learn to play bridge, not enough time to watch the next generation in her swimming pool as she smiled from under the umbrella.
See? I never said, not enough stuff.
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