My lovely mother

From whence cometh the sharp, sarcastic sense of humor known to affect many of the clan I call my family? This, unlike other profound questions, is very easy to answer. From my dear mother. And my dear mother got it straight from HER dear mother.

Grandma was 82 years old when I was born. She was the perfect grandma, in my books. We didn't go for adventures, didn't have sleepovers, didn't do the things that my young grandma-friends do with their grandbabies these days. She sat in her rocking chair facing her living room window and waited for us to visit. (Remember, these are my perceptions!) She knit mittens and crocheted pot holders. She made Kool-Aid for us. The ice cream had icicles in the pail. She had a candy bowl. All we had to do was ask. Joyce and I would huddle together to gather the strength to ask, and finally one of us would go, wait for a pause in the adult conversation, and squeak out the Low German words requesting the candies.

We played with the wooden spools, and drew pictures on the backs of old calendars. I picked out little bits of Grandma's chenille bedspread. I liked to sit on the treadle of her sewing machine. I loved the gingerbread clock that was in her bedroom.

My mom, the youngest of Grandma's four girls, is now 80 years old. She's the best. If I could grow up to be even a little like her, I would be quite satisfied.

Our family may inherit our nutty genes from my dad's side, but I learned to be nutty (even with appropriate levels of seritonin!) from my mother.















While age may make some people crusty and set in their ways, my mother (and dad - he'll get his own post some time) just seems to get sweeter and sweeter, while still definitely retaining her sense of fun.

Lucky kids, to have this lovely lady for a grandma.

Lucky me, to have her for a mom.