Image: I have no idea. I asked AI for an image based on 110.
Tomorrow is Grandparents Day in Hallmark world. I've always disdained made up holidays, but now that I'm a grandparent (3 grandsons, 2 more on the way) I'm perfectly happy if folks want to send cash acknowledgements. It's funny, I know many adults who did not want to be called Grandma or Grandpa until they held said grandchild in their arms and then their brains turned to mush. But this isn't a column about grandparents.
It's a piece about one grandparent, my Grandma Marg. Marg would have turned 110 this year. She was born in Greenfield, Ohio just as the first World War began and died in Greenfield a few months after the invasion of Iraq. In the years in between she lived in Springfield, Ohio, Cleveland, and Jackson, Mississippi. Marg always proudly claimed that when I was born, she picked me out of all the babies in the hospital nursery, even though none of the basinets were labelled. She wanted you to know that she knew you. It was her greatest gift (and sometimes curse.)
Marg introduced me to pizza (I didn't like it the first time. My waist wishes I still didn't like it.) She loved Hogan's Heroes. We watched Neil Armstrong's 'small step' on the moon from her living room. There were countless cookouts and parties. Marg only drank Pepsi, in a glass over ice, which as a kid I never understood. There was room in the refrigerator for the bottles, why not keep it cold? Well, you can't mix in liquor if your Pepsi is still in the bottle, you might spill some.
Marg had a gift of making you feel like you were the only person in the room. When she turned her attention on you, you became her favorite person in the entire world. She'd tell you that, straight up. "Jeffy, you are my favorite." As a kid, I never understood that all of the cousins were her favorite. It stung a little when I realized she said it to everyone, but now I'm glad that she could believe, again and again, that the person she was with was her favorite.
Marg loved to take her 'favorite' around the house and ask you what you wanted once she was gone. She had a small red Buddha statue that I adored, and every time she asked, I gave her the same answer. Marg always said I'll put your name on it, and then she would write on the bottom of the statue with a felt tipped pen. After her funeral, when we were cleaning out her house, several of her grandchildren laid claim to that Buddha. "My name is on the bottom," we all said. Sure enough, all of our names were written on the bottom of the statue. I didn't get the Buddha, but I do have a dining room table that still has my Aunt Sue's chewing gum stuck on the bottom of it.
Marg's gift was a double-edged sword, however. If she was angry, she could pour all of that anger into a single person. My dad got the worst of it, but Marg was happy to spread it around. And the thing about alcoholics is no matter how happy they are as they get drink, at some point that emotion turns negative and all of the anger, fear, resentment that's been hidden away spills out. The intensity of her anger has slowly faded away, but the joy of being her favorite will stay with me forever.
Don't forget! The kindle edition of Love, A novel of grief and desire will be on sale for $0.99 September 8 and 9. It makes a great gift for your favorite grandparent.
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