My Official Storybook Grandma*

I spent most of my young life never having what I thought was a typical, storybook grandma. My dad's mother never lived close enough and my mom's mother died before I was born.

At the age of 16, I met my future husband. From the beginning, Mike talked about his grandma that lived next door. She allowed him, his three brothers, and sister to raid the refrigerator. She defended them ruthlessly. The more he shared, the more jealous I became.

One year later, Mike invited me to his home for Thanksgiving. I was so excited until I found out I was going to be staying with the famous Grandma Reba. It was common knowledge that she had not liked most of my husband's girlfriends. I promised myself that I would not talk too much (impossible), swore I would not laugh to loud (sure), but most of all I was hoping she would love me.

I arrived and met his family, and then we walked across the street. I was more nervous about meeting Grandma Reba than anyone else. As soon as we entered, I felt the atmosphere change. Family pictures filled shelves. Homemade crocheted afghans dotted the living room furniture. Next to her chair was a basket filled with her current afghan project and crochet hooks. A tiny lady, standing around five feet with curly gray hair and incredibly thick eyeglasses, greeted us. She hugged Mike, and I could feel her eyes moving over me. All I could think was please like me! She greeted me warmly, and I began blabbing. She listened and smiled.

When Grandma Reba was able to interject, told me that she would show me my room. She opened the door and inside was a bed draped in one of her homemade afghans. She apologized for the room being so small, and then asked me what I would like for breakfast. Desperate to please, I told her anything was fine. Of course true to form, I had to elaborate: "eggs, bacon, sausage, cereal, bagel, orange juice, coffee, anything really." She smiled at my nervous chatter, and said "okay." We watched one of her favorite shows (I think it was Wheel of Fortune), and then she went to bed. I loved her, and was certain she hated me because I had not shut up since she met me.

The next morning I was greeted by delicious breakfast smells. As I walked into the kitchen, I saw the table loaded with all the breakfast foods I had named. She stood at the skillet frying some bacon. I asked her if everyone else was coming over. She smiled and said, "No, honey. It's all for you." For the first time since meeting her, I was speechless. After falling into my chair in shock, I glanced up.

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked.

I told her I would never be able to eat all of this and how I would be too fat for Mike to date and what a sweetheart she was and how I couldn't believe she did it--obviously, I had found my tongue. She laughed, and asked me what I wanted tomorrow. I told her cereal, coffee and orange juice was all.

After our visit, I knew I had experienced a storybook grandma. I was now as much of a fan of Grandma Reba as her own grandkids. During the next year, I wrote her some letters and sent her one of my graduation pictures.

The following year, Mike moved to Alaska where I lived and we got engaged. We decided to spend Christmas in New York that year with his family. I decided to purchase my wedding dress there so that his mom, sister and grandma would feel more included in the preparations. Unfortunately, Grandma Reba could not go with us. When I greeted her this second time, it was as if she had shrunk. It was more obvious that her curly gray hair was a wig, her thick glasses looked thicker, and she had lost more of her hearing. It was hard to believe she was the same person, but she still had prepared my room, and each morning I woke up to cereal, orange juice, and coffee--she remembered!

One evening while visiting with her, she got up to go bed. She lost her balance and fell into the Christmas tree and knocked it over. Mike and his brother helped her up and teased her about drinking too much. She laughed, but we all knew that something was not right.

I bought my wedding dress, and tried it on for her. I sang her the songs we would be singing at the wedding, and she cried. She told me how she wished she could come. I begged, but she said she would never be able to make a 15-hour flight. She bragged that I was going to be a beautiful bride. I told her I couldn't wait till we got married, and she was my official grandma. For Christmas that year, she gave me an afghan that she crocheted just for me. Two months after we left, and six months before we got married, she died.

We received a box of things that she wanted us to have. Apparently, knowing that her time was short, she spent her last months walking around her house, writing people's names on the things she wanted them to have.

Our trophies were a corner shelf that Mike had made for her in shop class, a picture that Mike had always loved, and my graduation picture that she had placed in a frame on one of her shelves. It was then that I realized she had told me in a very special way that she was my official grandma. Only family pictures were kept on her shelves. I was part of her family. I fell in love with her, but even better, she fell in love with me.

*Published in Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul and Braveheart