Grandma

My grandmother was a divorced working woman, a rarity in those days. I’d stand next to her at the kitchen counter as she poured soured milk into chocolate cake batter and told stories—made-up stories. She was superstitious and brewed the strongest green tea I’ve had since. She buried talismen in the backyard. So Irish, with her old lady shoes. I don’t think she taught me much by speaking, but mostly by my being able to spend time with her. I watched her care and concentration on whatever was at hand. Now, I feel a strong connection. My first adventure was a train trip with her from St. Louis to Chicago and how she permitted me, at seven, to sip coffee from the cardboard cup the conductor handed me as we rolled by the flaming orange trees outside the windows that October. Those little round spectacles set low on her nose—taking in the world.