Lady bugs, cookie dough and Billy goats.

I have been thinking about my grandparents a lot recently. I don’t know what it is that has brought them to my mind – perhaps it’s because this is the time of the year when families are celebrated: Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and even Youth Day. Whatever the reason, I have been thinking about my grandparents, talking about them and missing them. And while my dad’s parents have certainly been in my thoughts, it is my mom’s parents that are taking up most of my attention.

Not many people knew about my grandparents’ passing. I didn’t tell too many friends. I didn’t write a blog because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to linger on memories, because at that point lingering on the memories would have hurt more than anything. But now, I am finding myself smiling at the memories of the two wonderful people that my grandparents were. And so, I think now is the time to remember them here. I’ll start with Granny Ellen.

A lot of my memories with Granny Ellen take place in the garden – wandering between bushes and flowers, a pair of gardening shears in one hand and the other cupped around my own little hand. Me in sundresses (because I loved dresses even back then) spiralling around the garden, climbing on the swing-set, staring in awe at the sundial and begging Granny to let me shear the bushes today. She would hand me the shears and keep a watchful eye as I ran helter skelter through the garden with them, chopping here and there without any real order, ruining her garden as she looked on, smiling at the innocence of children and not getting angry (I can never remember my Granny getting angry – she was so kind and timid that anger didn’t seem to be in her emotional range.)
I remember us picking blackberries in the backyard, cupping them in our hands, my dress, filling little bowls and plucking them into our mouths sneakily, naughtily, because they were meant for a pie.
I remember finding lady bugs and “saving” them – picking them off leaves and letting them tickle our hands as they ran across, before finding a better leaf for them to live on (one that was greener or wasn’t about the be pruned).
I remember breaking dead leaves off the palm trees and having fights with them, pretending to be swashbuckling pirates and running around the garden, chasing each other, fighting each other, laughing with each other until we were too hot, too tired or until the timer in the kitchen started screeching and it was time to go back inside.

The memories of Granny that don’t revolve around the garden, revolve around the kitchen. Granny Ellen was a great cook, and she was always cooking, almost every time that I visited her. Ne’er a takeaway box passed through the doors to her home. There was always a lingering scent of homecooked food around the house, whether it was from a golden apple pie or sardines and mash. I remember the apple pies – the crumbling pastry, the sweet apple and then the sharp, bitter, spicy taste that filled my mouth as I bit into a clove, a taste and feeling that I hated back then, but miss now; I remember leftover cookie dough, our little secret from my mother, that Granny would give me she cut it into circles and squares and stars; and I remember freshly squeezed orange juice, poured, pulp and all, into three little glasses – one for me, one for Granny and one for Grandad.

I remember sitting in Granny’s room, listening to the radio stations that never ever played any music, with wool in our laps and needles in our hands as Granny taught me how to knit. I remember the awful yellow scarf that I made, that Granny was so proud of and that made me proud.
I remember climbing over furniture as Granny chased after me calling me her little Billy goat and catching me in her arms as I jumped from the kitchen table.
I remember the Christmas tree coming out at the beginning of December, Grandad bringing the boxes of decorations out from the spare room, and Granny and I carefully decorating it with tinsel and neon balls and bells and porcelain angels.

I have so many memories of my Granny, from spending every weekend with her when I was young. And then the memories come to an end. Suddenly all I can remember is Granny walking with a walker, Granny in a wheelchair, Granny refusing to leave her bed and asking the same questions over and over again. I remember telling her things and not knowing if she would remember them tomorrow. But I choose not to think of these memories. It is the older ones that I like to remember, the ones that I shared with her when I was a little girl.

I have so many memories of my Granny, and it is because she was such a wonderful grandmother, the kind that will never be forgotten.