I visited with my grandmother today—my mother’s mother, that is. I look at her, and I am captivated by her aura. She is soft and sweet and beautiful.
During the winter, when my brother and I were small, Grandma would drive from her home to ours. She would give my mom a ride to work, delivering us to the babysitter. She felt that mom was busy enough readying two young children in the morning; she felt that we might appreciate a warmed-up car in which to ride.
After retirement, Grandma would stay with Charlie and me in the morning while we waited for the school bus to arrive, my parents having early work schedules. She used to create beautiful oil paintings, too—and I remember, even as a kindergartener, that I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
That sentiment really hasn’t changed. I still want that—to handle the years with such benevolence and loveliness. Her name suits her: Grace.
Before leaving for our excursion, our morning visit, I grabbed a grapefruit, a paper towel, a sandwich bag, and a bottle of alcohol based lotion. I eat a grapefruit every day, and I knew that by the time we would be heading home, my stomach would be feeling rather needy.
(In case you’re perplexed: the paper towel served to collect any wayward juice, the bag to collect the rind, and the lotion to solve that sticky finger dilemma that oft arises from eating citrus fruit.
I have a bad habit of giving too much detail and then not following through with it.
My verbal skills are likewise flawed.)
I like sour things. Sweetened grapefruit?—Gross! As I savagely peeled the fruit, I told Mom that I even like eating the white fuzzy stuff just inside the rind.
She replied, “The pith!”
Then she mused for sparse moments before continuing on, “So, you’re admitting that, while you were eating your sauerkraut casserole last week, you were full of pith and vinegar?”
My mother: she’s a quick one. I bow down to her cleverness.