I thought of her when I bit into a gloriously ripe pear last week. I lived with Grandma and Grandpa one summer while I was in college. I worked for them at their lawn and garden store that year and learned a lot about horse feed, mulch, and invoices. It wasn't exactly the type of work I loved, but I sure did love being the only grandchild hanging out with Grandma and Grandpa. Their store ownership prevented most opportunities for weekend visits and overnight stays when I was little, so I delighted in having them all to myself. Grandma packed me the most ridiculous lunches each day for work. There would be a meaty sandwich, fresh veggies, a bag of chips or pretzels, a giant-sized Little Debbie's oatmeal creme cookie, a soda, and a pear. The pear was the best part. In my family we always bought the 5 lb bulk bag of apples or pears, so there wasn't a whole lot of choice about individual selection. Grandma hand-picked her fruit from the displays, and the difference was extraordinary. That single bite of pear last week brought back the smell of the store, the stacks of paperwork, the oily, grungy tools in the repair queue, the late-night movies I watched on my laptop in their house at night. It was a very special summer.
I think of Grandma when I pick up a handful of kale and squeeze it with a pinch of salt. I never, ever ate kale before Grandma. She got me to eat a lot of weird things because we all trusted the magic she made in the kitchen. I remember one particularly eyebrow-raising concoction of canned pears, frozen blueberries, and mayonnaise. It was extraordinary, but I'll never attempt a replication. I watched Grandma massage that bunch of kale, explaining how the squeezing breaks down the toughness and makes it delicious.
I remember as a tyke thinking I was drowning in a swimming pool after getting in over my head. A strong hand plucked me out of the water and decisively plunked me down on the concrete. I've never felt Grandma move faster than she did that summer day in the pool, and I'm very grateful for her lightning-fast reflexes.
I think of Grandma when I pour milk on cereal, particularly rice krispies and shredded wheat, both of which were staples in her farmhouse kitchen. I think of her when I eat those little soft butter mints, remembering a leisurely afternoon around her table molding mints for an upcoming wedding. Whenever I see a particularly grand sycamore, I remember the one at the end of their driveway, with a perfect handhold just over the first branch that made it climbable.
I remember trying to climb that sycamore after burning three of the fingers of my right hand attempting to take something out of her oven. I didn't realize there were hot coils at the top of the oven and blistered myself as badly as I ever have.
I think of Grandma when the alto section in my church choir sings something particularly exposed. Music was very important to her--she sang in her choir and they often had sacred or classical music streaming from their Magnavox boombox. Grandma didn't give praise often, so I'll never forget the time she snuck quietly into the church sanctuary in which I was practicing piano. When I finished she said quietly, "that was incredible. Please don't stop." A compliment from Mozart couldn't mean as much.
When our firstborn arrived, Grandma heard his name for the first time. "Oh! A little Jimmy!" (She was informed that there was no way we were going to call him Jimmy.) Three years later, baby Owen Nicholas was dubbed "Nicky." (Again, clarification was required.) When Felix arrived two years ago she was rendered utterly speechless and said, "...but...but what are they going to call him?!"
I remember her visits to us in New York after I was married, always emerging from the Chrysler minivan with little gifts--baked goods, Amish bologna, stickers or metal cars for the boys. Grandma always, always had something to share with you. She was brimming with hospitality and generosity.
I remember pulling into the retirement community last October, knowing that I was too late to say goodbye. After hugs to extended family, I slipped away to her bedroom, wanting to see where she had spent her final hours. Grandpa found me there and we cried together. Then I found out that Grandma hadn't left without one final gift. She had planned, years ahead of time, for cremation. However, she mandated the funeral home be required to hold her body until I arrived, just in case I didn't get there in time. The next day I was able to kiss her peaceful forehead one final time, sharing my love and thanks.
She was quiet and consistent. She was gracious and generous. She was, quite simply, an extraordinary grandma and I'm missing her very much right now.
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