Life Colored in 50 Shades of Love

My, my how things change

My grandmother was a beautiful woman. She was, from my vantage point, always old—but in that old-fashioned way that grandmas don’t do anymore. Her silver hair was never dyed. Her little wire-rimmed glasses were real gold; she had had them forever. I have them now. She wouldn’t be caught dead in anything but corset, cotton bloomers, stockings, black oxfords, and a dress with obligatory tiny flowers sprigged over it.

Trousers? Never happened. And she would never have gone out without a little veiled hat.

As a child, I spent much of my time with her. My home life was loud and rocky with five siblings and parents who struggled with everything. Kind of chaotic dysfunction.

Grandma taught me good cooking—cooking for taste, not necessarily for culinary trends. She made me into a needlewoman, showing me how to use threads or yarn the way an artist uses pigments.

I loved her unreservedly, and she me. I believe I could have asked for the moon, and she’d have tried to satisfy my desire. If I kicked up a heck of a rumpus, she’d laugh and rumpus with me.

She handed out hugs like candy on Halloween and never, ever, made me feel like I didn’t matter. She had 29 grandchildren. I always knew I was her supreme favorite, and so did each of the other 28. (I only have 15.)

She lived to 95 (my goal is 104). One day, when I asked her why she always had her little well-worn prayer book in her pocket, she turned the volume of her hearing aid back up to hear me and thought for a few minutes. (I hear her voice as I write this—a little crackly with age, soft and slow—mindful.)

“Sweetie, life’s tough. We can complain and moan about what the Good Lord hands us, but I decided a long time ago calm works better. My book helps me feel close to Him, but even better, when I sink into it and turn off my ear, I can really be all by myself. It does for my mind what sleeping does for my body. Kind of heals and clears out the mess. Then I just go about my business and don’t bother about all the garbage.” I have her book now, too.

It occurs to me that she knew all about mindfulness, though she had never heard the term, I am sure.

I never heard Grandmother raise her voice. She never needed a pill, a shrink, or a cocktail.

“Well, maybe a little drop of blackberry brandy, Sweetie.”

She didn’t diet. She didn’t work out. She didn’t have a job. She drank lots of coffee and was known to eat angel food cake for breakfast.

Memories of her—violet scent, soft voice, slow deliberate steps, busy hands, nurturing her family—still color my life in shades of love, safety, and serenity. Her way of being a grandma has tinted the life I weave with my own grandbabies.

But, still handing out hugs and kisses, I’ll teach those who come after me a different way of growing old.

I was into bell-bottoms, beads, fast cars, and maybe a toke now and again (sorry, Gramma!) I married twice, traveled the world with a backpack, met some pretty gamey people, and enjoyed their foibles. I burned my bra alongside a lot of you. I protest things that don’t sit well with me, and I don’t have a prayer book. A meditation cushion suits me better.

My life is, was, and will always be louder, filled with colors, faster, and a hell of a lot of fun. The folks coming up behind me need to watch out for my dust. Grandma loved her rocking chair, her quiet, and her soap operas.

Me? That beautiful woman gave me the confidence to rock on with dignity and harmony.

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