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Long Distance Visits

Posted on March 20, 2014 by susanrray

Screen Shot 2014-03-20 at 9.48.38 AM

Through the magic of the Internet, Husband and I visit our Grands who live across the country, close to the Rocky Mountains.  We sit in front of our computer, click a Face Time icon and wait to see Dan, age 2 ½, and Neil, 8 months.

“Hey, Dan.  Look who’s on the computer!” says Son, as he comes into focus on our computer screen.

I hear Dan running before he comes into view.  Big smile, open mouth.  I could count his teeth if he were still for just a few seconds.  “Hi Gran! Hi Pop!”  My heart melts just hearing him call my name.  Son prompts him to tell us about a recent trip to the zoo and what he ate for supper.   Then Neil appears beside Dan.   A happy, smiling baby.   Daughter-in-law turns him around so we can see his curly hair on the back of his head, and then he crawls across the carpet toward a red ball.

Sometimes Dan shows us tricks like turning a somersault or throwing his basketball through his four-foot goal. And sometimes he has a new matchbox car to show, but mostly he plays.  Neil usually sits in one of his parents’ lap.  Daughter-in-law and Son talk with Husband and me, but we rarely see them.  They keep the camera focused on our Grands.  I’m happy – happy to watch.

Recently, one Sunday night one of our Grands, Elaine who lives just across town visited Husband and me, and I had the great idea that she and Dan, who are the same age, would like to see each other through Face Time.  All went well in the beginning.  Elaine sat in my lap quietly; she’s not accustomed to seeing her cousins and uncle and aunt on a computer screen.  Dan said, “Hi Elaine.”  She sucked her thumb.  Dan held a green matchbox car so that it filled the computer screen.  Elaine jumped down from my lap, ran to the playroom, and brought back a black car to show Dan.

Back and forth, Dan and Elaine showed each other toys.  A blue car.  A yellow school bus.  A tennis ball.  A big colorful striped ball.  My heart was full.  These two cousins were hundreds of miles apart and having fun together.  Elaine showed Dan a red truck and he collapsed into a two-year-old melt down.  His happy face turned into tears and amid his sobbing I heard, “Go. Pop’s. Gran’s.”

I wanted to stretch my arms through the paths of the Internet, wrap my arms around Dan, wipe his tears, and give him the red truck.  Son hugged Dan, but there was no consoling.  Elaine dropped the truck. Thankfully, Husband caught it before it hit the computer.  We said our good-byes quickly and signed off.  “Dan come to Pop’s and Gran’s?” Elaine asked.

How can toddlers understand that they can see and talk to someone, but can’t visit right that minute?   Dan wouldn’t come to visit that night, but another time.  And sometime we’ll go see Dan and Neil and their parents.  Until then, we see each other on computers.

You have to be a grandparent to appreciate that a highlight of my week is to stare at our computer screen and watch Dan line up matchbox cars on a windowsill and see Neil crawl across the floor.

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Becoming the Big Sister

Posted on February 12, 2014 by susanrray

 

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At the lofty age of 4 ½, Ruth has many nights of experience over her little sister Elaine who is only 2 ½.  Ruth had spent the night with Husband and me about every third week for the past two years.  And even though Elaine has stayed with us several nights, last week was the first time these two sisters have stayed together.  Just the two of them, without their two older siblings who usually lead the way for these two little sisters.

 

While we ate supper, Ruth said, “Elaine, after we eat, we’ll go in Pop and Gran’s bedroom and dance.  Okay?”  Roll and skip and hop and twirl to the melodies of Old McDonald had a Farm and The Itsy Bitsy Spider.

 

When I said it was almost time to put on pajamas, Ruth took charge.  “Elaine, stop!” she said.  “We’re going to put on our pajamas and brush our teeth and then Gran will read us some books.”  When Ruth stays alone, she plants herself in either Husband’s or my lap and stretches out reading time.  But not this night.  “Elaine, let’s sit on the floor together,” Ruth said.  I sat in a wingback chair, read, and showed the girls the pictures.  After the first book, Ruth wiggled beside me in my chair and whispered, “Elaine might want to sit in your lap.”  With both girls close, I read another book and Ruth shared words of wisdom.

 

“Elaine, do you know what we eat for breakfast at Pop’s and Gran’s?”  Ruth asked.  Elaine shook her head.  It’s hard for her to talk with her thumb in her mouth.  Ruth said, “Oatmeal Squares.  Do you know what Gran puts on them?”  Elaine didn’t.  “Sprinkles.  Do you know why we get sprinkles?”  I think Elaine had stopped listening.  “When you stay in your bed and don’t get up, you get sprinkles.”

 

I didn’t know that breakfast sprinkles were perceived as a reward for staying in bed.  And if they are, then I’ve given the reward many times when it wasn’t warranted.  “Now, Elaine, Pop will take us to bed.  You stay in your bed (a crib) and I’ll stay in mine (a king size bed.)  We’ll be right in the same room,” Ruth said.

 

Ruth told me, “Gran, I can get up and get Elaine a drink if she needs one.  You and Pop don’t have to come upstairs.”   I wish all had gone according to her plan.  Ruth stayed in her bed, except when she got up twice to hand Elaine a glass of water.  But, Husband and I each ‘checked on’ Elaine several times before she finally fell sleep.  The next morning Ruth said, “Gran, I think me and Elaine both need sprinkles.  She tried really hard to stay in her bed.”  What’s cereal without sprinkles?

 

Lest you think a four-year-old is capable of bestowing sisterly love and guidance throughout an entire evening and morning, you should know that there were some glitches.  When big sister pushed a drawer shut on little sister’s fingers.  When big sister wanted the toy that little sister held in her hands.   When little sister wanted to put on her socks without big sister’s help.

 

This overnight visit reminded me that children need opportunities to be in charge.  A chance to be the leader and the one who knows what to do.  And don’t we all?

 

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Once in a Lifetime

Posted on January 23, 2014 by susanrray

toonvectors-27123-140There is only one time in a girl’s life that it’s okay for her to show off her underwear.  And that’s where my young Grand is right now.  When Husband arrived home from work, I said to Elaine, “Pop’s home.  Let’s go to the door and greet him.”  She ran to him, hugged his knees, and said, “Pop, have you seen my panties?”  And then she pulled down her pants just enough to reveal her pink and white underwear.  Elaine is learning to use the potty.

What was my biggest clue that this young Grand was ready to be potty trained?  One day while visiting with me and when she wore a diaper, she stood still for just a few seconds and then asked, “Gran, do you have a clean diaper?” Then she ran to my bedroom and lay on the floor – the exact spot where I’ve laid her when I’ve changed her diaper for the past 2-½ years.

When a child is potty training, it’s also a time that potty talk is allowed.  By both children and adults, and we really should be discreet.  While Daughter and I ate lunch at a restaurant, I asked, “So is she pooing or just tinkling in the potty?”  Daughter chuckled, put her finger on her lips, and said, “Shhh, Momma.”  Then I realized that the people at a table beside us probably heard me.  Certainly not normal mealtime conversation.  I would’ve apologized and explained, but they never made eye contact while Daughter and I whispered about Elaine’s progress.  A few days later, Elaine’s older sister and I discussed the process of potty training, but that’s a conversation I’ll never share.

My Grand’s parents are the real teachers.  I follow their directions and am amused by the funny things Elaine says.  I helped her get situated on the potty, walked out of the bathroom, and then I hear her chant. “Tinkle, where are you?  Oh, tinkle, where are you?  Come out, tinkle!”  Eventually, it did.  When I praised her she asked, “Gran, do you have a chocolate for me?”  I’ll give my Grand a chocolate candy anytime to avoid changing her diaper.

Teaching a child to go to the bathroom in this day and time is drastically different from the days when my own two children were toddlers. Thank goodness! Then age two was the set-in-stone age when any sensible mother had her child out of diapers.  Cloth diapers – that had to be rinsed, soaked, washed, dried, and folded. Maybe all that work was the incentive for us mothers to encourage our children to use the potty.  Now we know that children don’t awake on their 2nd birthday with enough control of their bodies to feel the urge and make a beeline for the bathroom.  I remember wiping many messes off the floor and, looking back, I’m not sure who was in training.  My child or me?  I even set an alarm clock for every hour to remind myself to take my child to the bathroom.

I’ve learned through the years that there are as many ways to encourage a toddler to use the potty, as there are squares on a roll of toilet paper.   And one way is pretty panties.  Elaine is so proud of hers.  This, too, shall pass.

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Filed under: Grandchildren, Kids Say Funny Things | Tagged: , | 2 Comments »

One Word for 2014

Posted on January 8, 2014 by susanrray

imagesA few days into 2014 and so far, so good.  I’d thought about New Year’s resolutions, but hadn’t made any yearlong commitments.  I’d just keep on keeping on and try to make better choices.  Try to eat good food.  Drink more water.  Exercise more.  Not waste time.

And then my niece posted a question on Facebook, a question that she’d heard discussed on a morning television talk show.  What one word would you choose to motivate yourself through 2014?  A word flashed in my brain and I immediately posted a comment.  Intentional – that’s my word.  Intentional with minutes, hours, and days.  With prayer and praise.  With a positive attitude.  Intentional when I eat and drink.  When I play and work.  When I spend money.  When I write and read and see and hear.  Intentional.

It felt good to have a plan, all wrapped up in one word.  And that day went as intended.  With ceremony, I ate a piece of Christmas dried apple stack cake and drank a perfect cup of coffee.  I watched the chickadees and cardinals peck seed from our birdfeeder.  Throughout the day, I consciously followed my intentions.

That night was weekly family supper night at our house and afterwards one Grand would stay overnight.  The next morning would be Grand and Gran time.  Except this night, two Grands would spend the night.  Lou, age 6, and Elaine, her 2 ½ year old sister.  Lou would sleep in the bed where she always sleeps at our house.  Elaine would sleep in a crib in the same room.  We’d eat breakfast and play.  Puzzles, painting, play dough.

At midnight as I lay awake between Elaine and Lou in Lou’s bed, I realized that my plan had gone haywire.  Elaine had climbed out of her crib three times and I decided, while half asleep, that she and I should sleep with Lou.  We slept, but not well.

While we ate breakfast, Lou asked, “Gran, do you have a bathing suit here for Elaine?”  I didn’t.  “Well, do you think this is a good day to swim at the Y?”  I didn’t.  Then Lou said, “I really wanted to practice diving underwater,” and I couldn’t say no to a morning swim.

Forget the puzzles, paint, and play dough, we were going swimming on a cold January day.  An hour later, after we’d brushed hair and teeth and packed towels and dry clothes and gone to Elaine’s house to get her bathing suit and the three of us wore our bathing suits, we stood at the edge of the Y swimming pool.  Lou said, “Watch me go to the bottom, Gran!”  She jumped into the swimming pool and picked up a diving rocket from the bottom of the 4 1/2 foot deep pool.  She stood and stretched her hand that held the rocket high over her head.  Elaine and I clapped and cheered.  “Way to go, Lou!”  I said.

At that moment, a word flashed in my brain.  Flexible – another word for 2014.

Intentional in play.  Flexible to change from puzzles, paint, and play dough to swimming.  Intentional to eat dried apple stack cake.  Flexible to change to a chocolate covered cream-filled donut.  Intentional and flexible.  I need two words for 2014.

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Filed under: Everyday Life, Grandchildren, Writing | Tagged: , , , | 2 Comments »

‘Tis the Season for Leaves Part 2

Posted on October 31, 2013 by susanrray

JumpingInLeaves

 

 

 

Tis’ the Season for Leaves

Part Two

            Tis’ the season for leaves.  Beautiful yellow and red and orange leaves that light up Tennessee mountains.   Leaves that fall to the ground.  Leaves that shout, “Play!”  Last week in this space, I whined about raking and blowing of leaves off our driveway and yard.  But I’m really not a Grinch.  And I really love living in the woods.

I’ve played in leaves all my life.  The house where I grew up had a yard with a couple of maples and a huge oak tree.  My best friend and I created ground level playhouses using leaves for walls.  We’d skipped Saturday morning cartoons to set up our yard house, and we carried our lunch to our outside kitchen.  Late afternoon, we raked our playhouse into a big pile, jumped in the middle, and hid.  And we threw leaves high in the air, letting them float over and around and on us.

When I was a college student (right here at TTU), I begged my parents to not rake all the leaves so I could do them when I was home for Thanksgiving.  Dad and I raked the huge brown leaves into a pile that I walked through and jumped in.  Is anyone ever too old to settle into a bed of fall leaves?  And I threw leaves in the air.  I’m sure Dad wanted to get the job done, but he indulged my play before we threw every leaf on the garden plot for mulch.  Mom served vegetable soup and cornbread for supper.  Those days made happy memories.  And when my children were young, they built leaf houses and forts.  They threw and stomped leaves, and they hid under mountains of leaves.

A few weeks ago when the leaves had just begun to fall, my Grands were playing in our backyard.  They kicked rubber balls down the hill and threw them back up to see whose ball went higher on the hill before it rolled down.  We gathered fall treasures.  Hickory nuts, crimson dogwood leaves, and acorns.  “I’ll be right back,” David, age 8, said.  He ran into the garage and came out carrying a leaf rake.  “Get me one!”  his six-year-old sister yelled.

David and Lou worked.  They started at the top of the hill and raked halfway down.  “What a great job you’re doing!”  I said and wondered that if I’d suggested that they rake leaves, would it have been fun?  The pile grew larger.  Big enough that I couldn’t let it stay on the grass, and my Grands had to go home soon.  They could help me carry the leaf pile off the yard, I thought.  “That’s enough.  I think you need to stop,” I said.

“You’re right, Gran, that’s enough!”  Lou threw down her rake and jumped right in the middle of the leaf pile.  “Can you see me?”  she asked.  Those leaves scattered when she jumped a foot off the ground.  And they scattered more when my Grands ran through the pile and rolled down the hill and had a leaf fight.

Fall leaves – Mother Nature’s toys.

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Tis’ the Season for Leaves

Posted on October 24, 2013 by susanrray

fall-leaves Tis’ the season for leaves.  Those beautiful yellow and red and orange leaves that light up Tennessee mountains.  Those beautiful leaves that fall to the ground.   Those leaves that aren’t so beautiful when they cover my yard and deck and driveway.  Especially when it rains.

I love living in the woods.  I love to watch tiny buds burst into leaves in the springtime, and I love the comfort of a shade tree.  And nothing in nature is prettier than the colors of autumn.  But when leaves begin to fall from trees, they spell work.

Almost thirty years ago, Husband and I built a house in the woods.  Through the years, we’ve lost trees to disease and storms, but it seems that each year our trees produce more and bigger foliage than the year before.  We’ve used every method to remove leaves.  Raked, mowed, and blown.  When our children lived at home, we ‘did leaves’ as a family undertaking, and now we usually, and happily, hire out the job.  Some people say to let all the leaves fall and then get rid of them one time.  Well, if we tried that, we’d be up to our eyeballs in leaves.  At least, up to our knees.   Someone will have to blow or rake the leaves in our yard at least three times between now and December.

Early in our marriage Husband assumed the responsibility of yard care, but because I’m the one who loves living in the woods (he’d be happy in a walk-up apartment) and we need to see where to drive, I try to keep the driveway leaf free.  I haul out my electric leaf blower, a 100-foot extension cord, and a rake.  I spend as much time untangling that long extension cord and moving it from an outlet on the front porch to a basement outlet as I do blowing leaves.  And I use a rake where I can’t reach with the blower.  Two hours later, I can see pea gravel and concrete once again.

The next day, leaves litter the driveway.  By the second day, especially if there’s been breeze, even a mild southerly breeze, I can’t walk the length of our driveway and not step on leaves.  Time to haul out the leaf blower.

Last week, my oldest Grand, age 8, made my heart quicken.  “Gran, can I blow the leaves?” he asked.  Can he?  How fast?  As quickly as I could get him to my house.  He carried the leaf blower, and I lugged the extension cord.  I gave directions on how to hold the leaf blower and which way to blow – straight into the wooded yard area designated for leaves.  We pulled on gloves; he covered his ears with hearing protectors.  I began taking wet leaves that were stuck under shrubs, and he stood holding the silent leaf blower in hand.  “One more thing, Gran,” Samuel said.  “Are you going to pay me?”

My Grand says he’s saving money to buy a Lego set.  He’ll have enough money soon.  There’s plenty of work for this boy.

 

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Acting Their Age

Posted on October 16, 2013 by susanrray

images My two sweet little Grands who were born during the summer of 2011 are two years old and they are typical toddlers.  They are learning to be independent and they mimic and they ask questions.

Early one morning when everyone except Dan and I was sleeping, he lined up three toy trucks, one behind the other.  He stacked wooden disks, the size of checkers, side-by-side in the bed of the dump truck.  When he pushed the truck across the floor, the disks rolled off.  I gathered the disks in my hand and said, “Look, Dan, lay these flat, on top of each other and they won’t roll.”  My Grand looked at me sternly, “No, Gen*,” he said.  Two more times he stacked the disks side and side and both times they rolled off the truck.  The fourth time, Dan pushed the truck with one hand and held the disks in the truck bed with his other hand.  “See, Gen,” he said.  “I do it!”  He did it his way.

Elaine sat quietly in her mother’s lap as her older brother and sisters, her parents, and I crowded around a laptop computer watching a slideshow of pictures from a recent family vacation.  She sucked her thumb on one hand and twirled her hair with the other hand.  Her eyes blinked often and slowly.  Then a picture of her sister, with eyes like saucers and arms and legs stretched wide as if she were flying, appeared on the screen.  “What on earth?”  Elaine yelled.  (The picture was snapped after Elaine’s father threw her six-year-old sister high in the air and just before her sister splashed into a swimming pool.)  What on earth?  Who says that?

“Agen,” Dan said.  Pat-a-cake again and again.  His chubby little hands pound the imaginary cake, and if he’d really held a cake, he’d flung it onto the ceiling, not thrown it in a pan.  He grabbed my finger.  “Band-aid?” he asked.  I assured him my finger was okay; the band-aid covered a small cut.  “Why” he asked.  And my answer led to another why and another and another.

“Baby Brumblebee.  Sing, Gen,” Elaine said.  I clasped my hands together and sang, “I’m bringing home a baby bumblebee.  Won’t my mother be so proud or me?”  Elaine put her hand on my mouth and said, “Stop, Gen!”  She pulled my hands apart.  “Brumblebee gone?” she asked.  I reminded her that it was a pretend bumblebee – not real.  “It sting you?”  she asked.  No, I assured her.  “Okay, sing, Gen!”  I clasped my hands and she clasped hers.  “Ouch, it sting me!”  Elaine shouted and threw her arms wide apart.  “Smash it, Gen!”  “I’m smashing up a baby bumblebee,” I sang.  Elaine sang along, slapping her hands together.  At the end of the song, Elaine asked, “Brumblebee, gone?”  Yes, until next time.

Oh, what fun to play with my two-year-old Grands!  Until he runs and she climbs.  Until they say, “NO!” when it’s time to wash their hands.  Until they have more questions than I have answers.  They are two years old and they’re acting their age.

*Gen—toddler talk for Gran.

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Grand Memory

Posted on October 4, 2013 by susanrray

400-04286209Our home is quiet this week.  Much too quiet after last week’s visit from our two Grands who live an airplane ride away.  Neil, 3 ½ months old, and his mother and his older brother visited so that Neil could meet his Tennessee relatives.  And his relatives – great-grandmother, cousins, aunts, uncles- gathered to welcome him.

Three and a half months old.  Is there an age that a baby is sweeter or more cooperative? Neil smiled and giggled and let us pass him from one set of arms to another.  When he lay on the floor on a quilt, he stayed put and watched.  He sat happily in a bouncy seat while we ate meals.  Of course, his mother made sure he stayed happy because he wore a clean, dry diaper and slept when he was tired and ate when he was hungry.

I had to sneak him away a few times to have some just Neil and me moments.  When Neil’s mother said, “He really needs a bath,” I quickly volunteered.  I hauled out my giant commercial size stainless steel bowl, lined it with a bath towel, and tested the water temperature until it was perfect.  Exactly baby-bath warm.

Neil, wearing only a diaper, lay wrapped in his blanket on my kitchen counter.  I placed my arms along his sides, and, with my face just inches from his, I sang a silly made-up song to the tune of ‘The Farmer in the Dell.’  “We’re going to take a bath…” He smiled and kicked.  As I eased his naked bottom and legs into the water, his arms flung outward.  I held his upper body securely, under his back, and smiled.  “Oh, nice warm water,” I said.  He relaxed, body limp.

As I gently rubbed his body with a soapy washcloth, I remembered the days when I bathed my own babies.  Did I cherish those minutes or was bathing my babies a chore?  Neil’s eyes followed my hand as I poured handfuls of water over his tummy, his legs, his arms.  His fussy cry let me know he didn’t like water on his head.  And I didn’t like water splashed on my face when he kicked his feet.  “Bath time is over,” I said.

I wrapped Neil in the softest towel we own, carried him into my bedroom, laid him on my bed, and quickly diapered him.  I sang,  “La, la, la, la, la….” He giggled, waved his arms and kicked and cooed – ohs and ahs – as only a baby can.  And then he blew a bubble and we both laughed.  I took pictures – just in case I ever forget that sweet, happy time.

As I gently massaged his body with lotion, Neil lay completely still, relaxed.  As I struggled to pull his shirt over his head and get his arms through the shirtsleeves, he fussed.  Finally dressed, he lay on his back in the middle of my bed.  I walked from side to side of the bed straightening the bed spread, and he arched his back and turned onto his side to see me.  When I sat beside him and told him how much I love him, he grinned, kicked his legs, and waved his arms.  A perfect response.

The memories, both mental and digital, must tie me over until next time.  I’m booking an airplane ride to be sure a visit is in the near future.

 

 

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At the Beach

Posted on September 30, 2013 by susanrray

DSC00876I hold her hand tightly.  She tiptoes along the dry sand and then onto the wet, just washed sand.  Together, my two-year-old Grand and I stand as the ocean water laps our toes.  Elaine wiggles her hand out of my grasp and marches toward the breaking waves.  She stops when the white water covers her ankles.  “Let me hold you hand,” I say.  “We’ll jump the waves.”  I covered her hand with mine.  She looks up at me, jerks her hand away, and shouts,  “No, Gran!”  The next wave is bigger and stronger.  She flings her arms out to maintain balance.  My hand on her shoulder gives support.  The water retreats.  She turns and runs to her mother who is standing on dry sand.  Mother lifts Elaine into her arms and Elaine burrows her head in Mother’s shoulder.  “Are you okay?”  Mother asks.  Elaine sniffs and says, “The water fall me.”

I carry my young Grand perched on my hip and walk along the seashore.  Just where the water surges onto the sand.  “Ah, Elaine, the water tickles my toes,” I tell her.  She lays her head on my shoulder.  “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” I chant,  “Oh, my toes are wet.”  She jerks her head up and leans her body to see my toes.  “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” I say.  She wiggles and slides down my leg.  Her toes touch the water.  She stands still; her body rigid as she watches the salt water cover our feet.  She grabs for my hand and clutches my finger.  “Tickle, tickle, tickle.  Our toes are wet,” I say.  Together, we stand and let the water lap our toes.  I pat my foot and the water splashes onto her knees.  She stomps.  “The water tickles your knees,” I say.  She stomps, again and again.

Elaine and I hold hands and walk on the dry beach.  “Shell, Gran!” she shouts.  She picks up a tiny broken white shell and runs to me.  “Hold it!”  I open my hand and she lays her treasure onto my palm.  “Hold it tight!”  She runs a few yards, stops, and gathers the shell fragments around her feet.  Her small hands are full.  “More shells,” she says as she unfolds her fingers and drops her shells into my hands.  It was a short walk in distance – maybe twenty feet.  A long discovery walk.  Shells of all colors.  White, brown, black and all sizes, but no whole and unbroken seashells. Yet each a treasure in Elaine’s tight fists.

I rest, reclined under a beach umbrella, and Elaine sits in my lap.  We watch her brother and sisters and parents and Pop swim and play in the ocean.  Pop and Elaine’s older sister are jumping waves; Pop lifts Elaine’s sister high as each roaring wave breaks under her feet.  “What they doing, Gran?”  Elaine asks.  “Jumping waves.  Can you hear your sister laughing?”  I say.  Elaine nods and stares at her sister and Pop.  “Gran?”  she says.  “I wanna’ jump.”

I stand beside Pop and lift Elaine as he lifts her sister.  The white water splashes her feet.  “Higher!  Gran!  Jump higher!”  Elaine shouts.  She grips my hands and stands knee deep in the water, waiting for the next wave.

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At the Kitchen Table

Posted on September 12, 2013 by susanrray

images “What else did you do with your granny?” my six-year-old Grand asked.  I’d told Lou that I use to sit with Granny at her kitchen table, just as she and I were sitting at mine.  Lou wore her swimsuit, ready to play in the YMCA pool, as soon as we finished breakfast.

Granny lived alone and just down the road, a three-minute walk from my house.  And most afternoons after school, I’d checked in at home, say I’d had a good day, and slam the screen backdoor as I shouted, “I’m going to Granny’s.”  Every time Mother told me not to eat candy or anything sweet at Granny’s or I’d spoil my supper.

Granny would push her quilt blocks aside on the couch and make room for me to sit.  “Are you hungry?”  she’d  ask.  Of course I was, because that question was Granny’s offer to make chocolate candy.  Sugar, a hunk of butter, a little milk, and a scoop of cocoa – all dumped into a metal saucepan and heated.  Stirred a few times until the mixture boiled, and then stirred constantly.  Granny dripped a few drops of the hot mixture into a small glass of cold water.  If it formed a smooth ball when I rolled it with my finger, it was done.  She set the saucepan on her white metal table and poured in a few drops of vanilla flavoring.  Then she beat the gooey chocolate with a wooden spoon until it became thick or until her arm was tired and she announced that we’d made spoon candy.  She poured the warm chocolate candy on a buttered platter.  A white one with a small chip that is now in my kitchen cabinet.

It was grainy candy –sometimes firm enough to cut into sloppy squares immediately and sometimes spoon candy, my favorite.  Granny got two spoons out of a drawer, wiped them on her apron tied around her waist, and then she and I ate straight from the platter.  She started at one end of the platter, I at the other.  As we ate, the syrupy candy would spread out and Granny declared that we’d hardly eaten any.  The candy still covered most of the platter.  And then Granny insisted I drink a big glass of water.  “Wash your mouth out,” she’d said.  No doubt, she didn’t want her daughter-in-law, my mother, to see all the chocolate on my teeth.

As much as I liked the candy, the happiest memory is sitting beside Granny at her kitchen table and talking.  She’d tell me about the day’s soap operas and I’ll tell her about Marvin jumping off the top of the slide on the school playground and getting in trouble.  I liked sitting beside Granny, just as I like my Grand sitting beside me at my kitchen table.

“You know, I had a granny and your mother had a granny,” I told Lou.  “I thought about having you call me Granny, instead of Gran.  What do you think?”

Lou looked at me with raised eyebrows.  “I think a granny wouldn’t swim with me.”  She’s probably right.

 

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