My Grandmother, 30 at 92

My grandmother and I

Grandmas are magical.

If we are lucky, when we look back on our childhood, our grandmas are a part of it. We remember the days that they would sit on the floor with us and help us build that house of blocks.

As we got a little older, the elementary school projects that we were so proud of were addressed to no one other than grandma.

They get the copy of your good grades, ask about your friends, heal your boo boos with kisses and make the best cookies.

When we look back, they’ve been there for it all.

What is it that makes our grandma’s so magical to each of us?

Perhaps it’s something as small as the names we call them, Nana, Nene, Oma, Granny and many others.

When my mother thinks back about her grandmother she remembers a woman full of life and attitude, something that mother inherited. She remembers summers full of baking and escaping from the real world and spending weeks in a place that she felt was only in her dreams.

Her Nana was more of mother to her than anyone else. She was her friend, her guidance and inspiration.

Now she creates a magical world full of fairies and make-believe for the pure mind of her own four-year-old granddaughter, two-year-old grandson and another on the way.

At what point in our lives do we establish such a special connection with our “Nanas.” Being only two, her grandson knows when he waddles up to the bright-red door of that big house; his eyes will shine the brightest shade of blue and squeal the words “Nana!”

Unfortunately as we get older, the magic in our lives slowly slips away and our imagination disappears along with our other make-believe friends and the tooth-fairy, although the powerful connection of grandmothers still remains.

My mother’s life-long dream was to be a children’s book author. To be able to keep able to be a part of the real world while still managing to still keep a grip on the pure, unpolluted innocence of her childhood mind.

“Nana and Pixie,” was title of her book proposal. This book nothing other than a reflection of the strong relationship between her and her grandmother even decades after her passing, and the developing connection between herself and her own granddaughter. With her small size, bright red hair and sparkling personality, a nickname no other than “Pixie” would fit more perfectly.

Merely weeks later, off the book went to prospective publishers in hopes that her childhood dream would soon come true.

An answer from publishers usually takes months. In this case, it only took two weeks.

What was it that made this book so different than all the others?  What was it that caught the publisher’s attention? The answer was simple, the word “Nana.” 

The woman on the other end of the phone explained that while looking through the pile of proposing children’s books that surrounded her, she saw the words “Nana and Pixie.”

That’s was I used to call my grandmother explained the publisher. She told my mother that she used to be very close with her grandmother and there was something about seeing her grandmothers nickname on that title page that made her pick it up and not only read it, but ask to publish it.

My mother’s childhood dreams came true simply from one word, reminding a complete stranger about their relationship with their grandmother, from a book inspired by my mother’s relationship with her grandmother and written about her relationship with her own granddaughter.

Mine is just grandma, a name simple but not for a simple woman.

I can look back on a time when I was younger; I would sit and wait with my seven-year-old legs dangling off the chair kicking with excitement as my grandma made macaroni and cheese. Elbow noodles covered in a thick cheese sauce with a crunchy top, a recipe she has yet to share with me, she claims there isn’t one, but I know she’s fibbing.

With her thinning red hair, beautiful face shinning without a drop of make-up and a homemade dress ironed with every line creased as it should be, she kisses the top of my head and hugs my sister for no other reason to but tell us she loves us.

                 My grandma fell in love with my grandfather and never fell out of it, even after he passed away.

They raised 12 children together and each of them turned out to be something amazing. With that alone, I know what hard work really is. Because of my grandmother we have a family that is more powerful than some armies.

My grandma is the head of our family. She keeps order, brings us together and has made each of us who we are as a person.

I am blessed to be able to say I am made of the same cloth as my grandmother.

She has never given up on anything in her life and has never let herself or anyone she knows sit and wallow about the world around them. You can either sit by or watch the world around you pass by or you can get off your butt and fight for it.

After the passing of my grandfather, who I am proudly named after, and after her children had off and grown, she lived by herself in an area that seemed to get more dangerous by the day.

When a break in or incident would happen only a street over and we would ask her if she was okay she would look at my father and me with a look as if to say “Are you kidding? You guys are such babies.” My grandmother is fearless. I used to pray for the poor soul whoever made the mistake of stumbling onto my grandmother’s porch, because it sure as hell would be their last. Finally, she moved.

My grandma got a scooter a few years ago. And to no surprise would she look at me and say, “I’m going on a joy ride when no one’s looking want to go?” when I would ask her about the cops that would pull her over she would just laugh and say “I think I can lose ‘em.” I then learned my grandmother was more of a bad ass then me.

My grandmother is turning 92 in April. Even at her age and after losing her hearing, she can still see more from life than any kid that I know. She is capable of really hearing someone and what they mean even underneath their words better then any therapist, and she still has a back hand hard enough to still knock some sense into those with the hardest of heads.

My grandma is sick and this scares me.

 Not because of what will happen to her, but because I know there will never be another person like her.

Only my grandma would get a Reuben delivered to her in a hospital and ask for a pedicure at the same time.

Only my grandma, as weak as she feels, would wake up before everyone else to make sure her hair is done properly and to make sure her golf was on the television.

My grandmother is magic. There is no special name for her, but she herself is special. She can speak to you with her eyes, know what’s on your mind without telling her and still manage to keep that damn secret macaroni and cheese recipe hidden for the past 20 years and counting.

What is it about grandma’s that make them such an impact on our lives?

I will be truly blessed to become a woman that was in anyway like her.

I pray that I can be the woman that she is at 92 by the time I am 30.

Grandmothers are magic.