Grandma Laura: The Grandmother Standard and what love looks like when it's busy
Posted: Friday, February 08, 2008
by J. Louise Larson
http://familyrootsandwings.blogspot.com/
So I was laying in bed thinking about how cold my feet were -- I'd been working in the draft, oblivious to my chilling tootsies -- and thinking I should really find my pink fuzzy slippers my kids got me for Christmas three years ago.
They're big and hairy ( the slippers, not the kids) and you'd think they'd be really warm, for being so plush, but it occurred to me that no slippers could possibly get my feet as warm as the red woolen ones my Grandma used to knit for us every winter.
The slippers she made us (and mittens too, for that matter) had to be red, as Grandma knew what most grandmothers seem to know -- that you will always lose just one, so the remaining slippers and mittens will need mates. She kept a drawer of singlet slippers and mittens by the door, hospitably ready for any visitor to come in and politely take their shoes off and warm up chilled toes in two little nearly-matched bits of hand-knitted heaven.
It's a scientific fact, her red mittens and slippers were the warmest, just as her sheets were the whitest and crispest and an education in and of themselves as outside their linen folds I had no understanding that sheets could be either crisp or white.
The truth is, my grandmother was the mother of all superlatives for me. Her laugh would charm the most hardened criminal; her look of disapproval from a flash of blue eyes the color of Norwegian seas under arched eyebrows, if incurred, weighed like an anvil on the shoulders of the mind.
Her pork chops were the most delicately seasoned I have ever consumed, the raspberries from her garden the sweetest, her roses the rosiest and her many species of African violets the violetest.
She served me grape Hi-C in glasses etched so pristinely it was like drinking from tiny chandeliers, quite a heady nectar it was, too. When I was more grown-up, there was hot tea with milk, and always her Scottish shortbread that melted at tongue temperature. Every piece of shortbread I've had since has failed to live up to the Grandmother standard.
With her clip-on mabe pearl earrings, true red lipstick perfectly applied and a light blue scarf at her throat, she was a picture of elegance each Saturday as we went to grocery shop, where I was assured a mint from her big clasped leather handbag.
My dad sent me all her handbags after she died, mailed me a big box of them because he didn't know what else to do with them, he said.
At the time, I was nonplussed at his gift of the ancient but still immaculate purses that had once been repositories for all that Grandma needed for our big weekly outing. I regret to say I could do what he couldn't -- I threw them out. I'd love to have just one of them now to put my cold memories in and warm them up.
But since my dad died I have her songbook from the Sons of Norway lodge, and I have her bean pot and the afghan and pillowcase that softened her gleaming maple rocker.
I know my grandma had her human side, but I never really saw it, or perhaps a glimpse when I exasperated or disappointed her -- which had to be often, but she was a patient woman.
She was something of a rock for family and neighbors, a legendary example of what love looked like when it was busy.
And she was the reason that every Christmas I searched for that perfect light blue scarf to give her, maybe one the color of the eyes of the morning glories on the vines that climbed over the trellis against her white storybook cottage that I now realize must have been just 600 square feet in size. She would always be surprised and delighted with each and have some nice remark about the fabric or the color.
When she died, she had a whole drawer full of light blue scarves because, of course, she couldn't throw them out.
My theory, and I could be wrong, is that when Grandma got to Heaven, she put a drawer full of nearly-matched hand-knitted red slippers by the pearly gates, waiting hospitably to welcome guests and take the chill of the journey off, and come in and have some and Scottish shortbread that melts at tongue temperature.
At least, that's my idea of Heaven.
I wasn't able to be there when my grandmother died; I couldn't go to her funeral or see her peers come to mourn her. Perhaps that's why I sometimes feel like she's still with me.
Call me sentimental, but sometimes I almost think I can hear -- more likely feel -- the sound of her chuckle as we cut up salmon filets for canning in the August sunshine or her voice warbling the last Norwegian she could recall -- the national anthem -- or calling me in from hiding under the all-enveloping green canopy of her weeping willow.
And it's almost like I'm in her warm and creaking kitchen once again and she's tucking me into snowy sheets on the rollaway cot and I think if I ever get a chance to be that memorable and meaningful to some child I would be honored beyond belief, and if I ever get a chance to live up to her gene pool and exhibit even a fifth of that old-fashioned hospitality and graciousness -- even in the face of grave circumstances -- I would have achieved true character. By the Grandmother standard, by which all truly good things -- from pork chops to sheets -- are measured.
And maybe I'll start by taking up knitting. I'm thinking ... slippers.
Do you have good memories of a beloved grandparent, or an idea of what Heaven must be like? Leave me a note in a comment at my blog -- I'd love to hear about them.
-- J. Louise Larson
http://familyrootsandwings.blogspot.com/
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Top-level comments on this article: (4 total)What an awesome story. Thanks for sharing. A person with a grandma still living is truly a fortunate person. Keep writing.Thanks so much for reading. I agree -- grandmas are to be treasured. THanks for your generous encouragement! Best regards, J. Louise Larson
hi J, what a perfectly written and beautiful story. very descriptive and i could see your grandmother and all the things you so intricately and intringingly described. i have a suggestion-this story is too good for people not to see, if you find that happening, you might consider changing the title, i have to do so all the time, because as I said, this story is too good fo people to pass by. the title might not grab people's attention. i hope you don't mind, but i love this story, and i'd love the most amount of people to get a chance to read it too. again, it was beautifully descriptive. good job, best regards, sue thom
i told you this story was too good to miss. i guess i was wrong about the title-i'll have to work on that. sorry, beautiful story, congratulations for being on the front cover. best regards, sue thomSusan, thanks so much for your kind comment and your help. I agree I need to work on my titles! My apologies for not responding earlier - I didn't realize I could respond directly. Thanks again! And thanks for reading. J. Louise Larson
Sue, thanks very much for reading, and for your comment. I meant to follow your suggestion and just got busy! I do appreciate the input. Have you seen my article on Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey? I hope you'll tell me what you think! Best regards, J. Louise Larson
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