My only memory of my grandmother is of her cooking in a steamy tiny kitchen. Her faded calico dress hung where her breasts should have been. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and she had nylons rolled up with garters just up passed her knees. She served us potatoes in a red pyrex bowl. She smiled and kissed our foreheads.
The other memories of her come from stories my mother told us as we would look at the photo album. My grandmother birthed a dozen children during the depression. She filled her empty bra with tissue and would pull it out when she needed to blow her nose or wipe her eyes.
I never knew my paternal grandmother. Stories of her suggest a timid woman who suffered with kidney disease.
Now I am a grandmother. Because Alberta doesn't live nearby, times together will be limited. I love Skype and Face Time for how they can connect us. I want to read books with her, take her for long walks and explore along the way. I want to introduce her to Mahler, Marie Laurencin, Chagall and teach her how to make a pie.
She'll teach me too and introduce me to a world that often leaves old women behind.