I didn’t post once last week and I don’t feel bad about it. Instead, I spent the time listening to my favorite storyteller: my incredible Grandma.
Gram and I have always had a special relationship. Like most grandmas, she was the lady I went to for fresh baked cookies and when my mom told me ‘no.’ But when I was fifteen, I started working for her company and the dynamic between us changed. She was still – and will always be the best grandmother in the world – but I realized she was also an intelligent woman who people listened to and respected. Professionals, community members, and politicians valued her opinion and appreciated her work ethic.
I always wanted to be like her, to be a reflection of her innate goodness and true charity, but she’s a tough act to follow!
Gram is one of the few people that I love to listen to. I wish I’d started tape recording our conversations or jotting down the details years ago. It’s not all that often you get to hear first-hand accounts from someone who sent a brother to fight in the Pacific, sing the big band ballads, and dish out all the dirt on your mom.
She doesn’t mince words. She’s never hidden (what she considered) her fault in her stories; she doesn’t make herself seem perfect. And that’s just another reason I love her. She’s wise and honest and humble.
The more I write about my grandma, the more I realize what an incredibly deep and sparkling character she’d make in a novel.
But I could never, ever do her justice.