Love and Chocolate Cake

My Grandma Sexton was the kind of grandma you read about in picture books.  At least that's how I remember her.  She had salt and pepper black hair, was short and fiesty, and smelled, for lack of a better word, yummy.  It was probably some Avon scent, but I distinctly remember how she smelled, how her house smelled, and friends, it all smelled like happiness to me.  

We went to visit my grandmas at least two or three times a year.  They lived in the same town after all.  I remember plenty of holidays, but what really stands out to me are the summers when my parents would drop me off to spend an entire week split between my two grandparent's houses.  Did I mention they also lived exactly one block away from one another?  It was a pretty great set up, that's for sure.  While I loved being with both my grandmas, I knew that at Grandma Sexton's, I could do no wrong.  At Grandma Sexton's house, I wasn't in the way or naughty (although I'm sure I was both), and she made me feel like I was one of the best things that ever happened to her.  We played games, did house work, and I pounded the heck out of her out-of-tune piano.  She showed me how to make home-made noodles, had the best grape juice, and made a mean chocolate cake.  We sang songs (she was always humming something it seemed), I read books, and I visited the neighbor lady who I adored.   The highlight of most days was when we watched Grandma's "stories" in the afternoon.  We each sat in our recliners and Grandma filled me in during the commercials on all the good gossip from not only her "stories", but the small town in which she lived. 

I'm sure I have some pretty rose-colored memories about that time with Grandma.   But the summer I was 15, she fell asleep peacefully and never woke up.   I knew then that I had lost someone I could never replace.  Grandma had shown me unconditional love in the way only grandparents can.  She listened to me and had time for me the way others didn't.  Her laugh was contagious, and her belief in all things fanciful was as well.  I felt safe with her on the nights when the thunder clapped so loud I couldn't stay in my own bed.  She would shush and sing to me and tell me all about the angels with potato carts rolling over bridges in heaven.  She prayed with me and showed me what faithfulness looks like in the face of loneliness and eventually illness.  She made me feel valued--something I hope to reciprocate in the way I treat my own children (not as often as I should) and my nieces and nephews.  My Grandma Sexton invested herself in me even though I wasn't the picture book granddaughter.  She just made me feel that way.