Storybook Grandma

I have one of those grandmothers that looks like she came straight out of a children’s book. Rosy cheeked, indelibly sweet, and without fail, always in an apron with a warm dessert tray in hand, she is the quintessential grandmotherly figure.

For most of my childhood, I lived far away from her central Kansas home, meaning I could only bank on Christmases together (we were lucky to see each other maybe once or twice more than that throughout the year). When I was nine, my family moved back to my dad’s hometown and for the first time, I lived close to my sweet paternal grandmother. Talk about a kid’s dream come true! For those first three years, we lived just one block away from each other. Her house was everything a grandma’s house should be. Knick knacks lined the window ledges. A school bell collection was displayed prominently in a shadow box on one of the living room walls. Doilies accented the end tables, coffee table, and credenza. Grandma saved several of her own kids’ toys so that she had special items her grandchildren could play with when they came to visit. I loved those vintage toys but the best thing to do at her place was play dress up. Grandma hung her very best formal dresses from another place and time on a low rack and she placed all of her clip-on earrings and costume jewelry into a Currier & Ives tin as well so that her granddaughters could become princesses whenever they came over. My cousin, Alyssa, and I would traipse up and down her basement stairs, tripping over layers of crinoline and starched taffeta, eager to show her how those ballgowns “almost” fit.

Grandma had (and, still has) the ability to make the simple things seem special. Marathon runs of I Love Lucy or multiple hands of cards were pleasant ways to pass the hours side by side. Grandma had an open-door policy, which meant my siblings and I were always welcome to stop by unannounced (consequently, we took her up on it). When I was twelve, my family moved again, this time just north of Kansas City. The idea of leaving Grandma behind was unthinkable so we asked if she would consider moving with us. She agreed and my parent’s built her a house next door to their own. Being next door provided her the privacy and autonomy she needed but also meant she was just a few steps away, too. Until her mid-seventies, she walked a couple of miles a day and worked at a Hallmark retail store. On her days off she enjoyed taking day trips. A handful of times she invited me to join her on one of her “gravel road adventures”. For people my own age, driving is usually just viewed as a way to get from point A to point B. But to my grandma, driving is the good stuff, the journey just as important as the destination. We would head out of town and quickly veer off the beaten path (she preferred country roads to highways and interstates), sometimes without a clear destination in mind, other times with a small town, lonesome cemetery, or historic site the end goal. I never could figure out how she knew where she was going, since she didn’t own a GPS or rarely used a map when charting new territory. It was as though she had an internal compass (I’m convinced she does and it runs in the family, as my dad is much the same). The car would jostle as it hit potholes and great clouds of dust would arise behind us from the rocky rural road. As we would look out into the fields, she would tell me about what it was like growing up on a farm right here in the Midwest, getting up at the crack of dawn to milk cows and clean stalls before going to the one-room school house a few miles down the road from her family’s farm. Grandma was the baby of her family by a long shot, her siblings all grown and out of the house by the time she entered school. Her stories would come to life as we ventured deep into the country, the landscape a perfect backdrop to breathe fresh wind into her tales. I loved them all. Stories about life as a little girl on a farm, tales of falling in love as a young woman, and memories of taking care of three rambunctious children (one in particular- my dad- was a particular handful!). Grandma didn’t sugarcoat life’s hardships, but her perspective helped her over time become grace-filled and joyful.

Now as a married women with three children of my own, I don’t have the opportunities to visit my grandma like I did when we once lived next door to one another. Grandma lives on the other side of the city, over an hour’s drive away. She no longer works but instead fills her time volunteering at a local hospital and extending hospitality. When I make the trek back up to visit, car fit to bursting with children and baby gear, I survey the land once we get out of city limits. Cornfields on my right and pastureland on my left, I know Grandma would have much to say about the land that a city girl like me couldn’t comment on. When we get together, our conversations center on how much the kids have grown, on how extended family is doing, and occasionally, we’ll reminisce on old memories together. My one year old will coo and babble at our feet, happily playing with the same blocks that were once pulled out for me to play with as a little girl. I’ve come to realize the greatest gift she has provided me, both as an adult and as a child, is that of perspective. Going to Grandma’s was fun not because what she provided was new and flashy but because it was warm and familiar. We didn’t need to go seek out new forms of entertainment to enjoy one another’s company. Being together was the gift. Much like those day trips spent together jostling down old gravel roads, she has taught me that the day in, day out journeys of life are to be enjoyed as much as the big occasion milestones. I hope my boys will have the privilege of storing up many memories of times spent with their storybook great-grandma, that times with their grandparents teach them life lessons through hearing their stories and connecting to them. And, one day, way off in the distance I hope that when my children are grown and married and have children of their own, I can provide that cozy over the river and through the woods-type home that is warm and inviting. Not necessarily adorned in doilies, but instead full of stories waiting to be told over milk and a warm tray of goodies. I’m already working on that apron collection.