My Thoughts On Some Of My Grandmother’s Memories (Part Two)

As I said before, she wasn’t at her best when she wrote those words, but I can still see traces of her sharp insight and her wry humor, two traits among many that I never saw in her in person.

There . . . I said it.

By the time I met my grandmother, a lifetime’s habit of writing stories, only to tear them up for fear that somebody might laugh at her, had taken its toll, and my memories of my grandmother revolve mostly around her fears (particularly of storms) and her obsession with Dialing for Dollars (and if they ever called her, I never heard about it).

I remember hating the way she’d “figure” I was “too big now to give her a hug” as her way of asking for a hug, but as much as I hated the way she “asked” it, and as much as I disliked hugging her (I am not now, and I was much less then, much of a hugger), I always did it.  I did it because there was always this sense of loss about my grandmother that I couldn’t then understand, but never wanted to make any worse for her, and if hugging her helped in some small way, I did my best to tolerate it.  In many ways, that sums up my relationship with my grandmother.

I tolerated her.


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