Is it a bad thing that I have a favorite grandparent? I mean, my dad’s dad died when I was really little. (Like two.) The only memory I have of him is that he would get my Barbie doll’s hair out of their faces for me. I couldn’t do it and I would take them into the living room where he was sitting in his chair and he’d do it for me. Whenever I needed him to. Without sighing heavily or making me feel like I was less important to him than whatever he was doing (usually reading the newspaper). I no longer remember his voice or his face…when I remember him it’s his arm and his hands that I see….pushing back my Barbie’s hair.
My dad’s mom didn’t die until I was an older teen. She was nice, but I didn’t have the relationship with her that I had with my mom’s parents. I don’t know if it was because I saw her less, but the feeling at her house wasn’t the same as the feeling at my Gramma’s.
When I was young I lived next door to my mom’s parents. Maybe that’s why their house felt like home — it was an extension of my house. If my mother wouldn’t let me do something or was giving me a hard time I’d go next door and tell on her. 😀 I was about two years old, but tell me THAT isn’t a handy set up.
My Gramma always answered her back door with a mixing bowl in hand. She was always making cookies or cakes. Her house always smelled nice. My house smelled like diapers (new baby brother) or something burning. (My mother can’t cook.) My Grandpa was the one who would do anything I wanted. If Mom bothered me too much I’d tell him and he would stick up for me. If Mom wouldn’t buy me something I wanted, he would. He could also fix anything. He had a workbench in his shed that always smelled like gasoline because he kept his lawnmowers in there too.
My Gramma was one of my favorite people for a long time. She was better than my mom because she was all mom-ish, but didn’t yell at me, hit me or call me names. A disapproving look from Gramma was all it took to make me feel bad about what I was doing and get me to straighten up. She was calm, she was slow to panic or get worked up about something, whereas my mother is always (to this day) always “oh my gosh!” about something. Even little things. She’s rush, rush, rush, what do I do? and wears out the people around her. Gramma found humor in things and shrugged off the rest.
Gramma made me laugh, sometimes at her expense. And Gramma would tell me “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.”
And I do. She’s still the first person I want to call when something good happens. Every once in a while I think “I should call Gramma” and I remember she’s no longer taking calls. It’s been years….
…and I found some pictures of her when we moved and just seeing her again after so long made me cry. I stuck pictures of her on the fridge…and then cried every time I walked into the kitchen.
I miss her so much my heart hurts.