my dear sweet mim

Every child should be blessed by the magic of a special grandmother. My sisters and I are much more than fortunate, because Mim was beyond special. And I was her Katydid.

Mim was a delight. Her love radiated. She was the epitome of a joyful, patient and comforting grandmother. You were never asking too much of her – giving was what she did best. She had an enchanting twinkle in her eye, the kindest smile and was always ready with kisses, hugs and snuggles.

Part of a grandmother’s love is evidenced in the art of cooking and the ceremonies that are created around it. Mim was a phenomenal cook and prepared for visits by having our favorite treats on hand. Ginger snap cookies, rice crispy treats and, at Christmas, 7-layer bars. The best macaroni and cheese ever, hamburger casserole, pineapple chicken. Sour cream frosting on the moistest Devil’s Food cake. In the summer, there were BLTs and peppermint stick ice cream out on the back porch. The rest of the year, tea time with cookies. Without fail, there was a canister of chocolate Quik in the cupboard - something taboo in our house. Four, five, six spoonfuls... she wouldn't stop you. To complete the experience, we’d pour the milk from the cow pitcher. And you could always find a gum drop in the green candy dish in the dining room.

Mim had a stash of stories which she would tell us over and over. It was her way of bridging the years that separated us from each other, showing that she wasn’t just our grandmother, but a confidante who offered a middle ground to relate. Stories about squabbling with her sisters showed us that she knew growing up wasn’t easy for anyone and that sisters aren’t perfect, but they’re family. Stories about the mischief her own children got into, so we’d know that everyone makes mistakes and learns from them. She reminisced on her favorite moments of watching us grow up – so we knew just how much she loved us.

It was important to her that she taught us the ways of living life right and being good little ladies. Shoes at all times, no wet hair or bare shoulders. Mim was not afraid to raise an eyebrow when we were being fresh – and that was enough.

Mim would take us to the church fair every summer. She was always so proud to show us off and everyone we met seemed to know everything about us. The outings never ceased - to the aquarium, to the movies, to the wild animal farm, to the mall, to the pet store, to the park, to the beach, to the doll lady’s house, out for Papa Gino’s, Captain Frosty’s or Seafood Sam’s.

While I was writing this, memories of Mim came back in droves. Of Mim kneeling in the garden in the spring and summer. Of her perfect English posture in church. The huge coat boxes full of gifts that she would send each of us on our birthdays. The calming noises she made and the way she rubbed her hands together as she was preparing for her daily snooze – sitting upright – on the couch. The way she laughed and how the tears would stream down her face if you really got her going. Her relationship with Gimps and the love that flowed between the two of them. Together, they formed the most remarkable bond and created such a wonderful family.

The memories that Mim created for us have made us better people for knowing her. We are incredibly blessed to have such a wonderful woman in our life, who taught us so much just by loving us.

dreaming

I padded down the stairs, through the formal living room, the dining room and all of its knick knacks tinkling as I passed, into the kitchen and saw a familiar sight.

In the next room, my grandfather was sitting in his favorite chair - his recliner. The morning sunlight streamed through the windows as if casting a spotlight especially on Gimps in his spot.

"Gimps!," I exclaimed as I moved through the rooms toward him.

He turned, and stood. The dream did not allow me the memory of Gimps in his better days. The dream gave me a picture of him not in his best health. Though not his worst either.

He beamed. His smile was, as always, enchanting. Anyone caught in its shine couldn't help but to smile back.

He gathered me up in his arms and said, "I just want to make sure you know how much I love you."

held onto it

Summertime thunderstorms. Nothing like 'em. The air gets so hot and juicy, then sizzles itself into an uproar and downpour. During the day, a great work distraction. At night, a fantastic, romantic light show.

Today we had our first bout of the season, just before work let out, so that when I left for the day the sidewalks were no longer steaming hot and the air was almost refreshing after the stifling air of my lunchtime sun bath.

One of my favorite summer memories is of a thunderstorm the summer before Junior year of high school. Nicole and I had been stuck at her house all day having aimed to make it to the beach, but were lulled by the heat into soap-watching in the A/C. Having given up on the neverending saga of Luke and Laura (for the day), we wandered around the house pestering her mom into entertaining us somehow. Take us to the mall? Not going out in the traffic. Bake cookies? Too hot.

Suddenly, a breeze picked up. The sky got dark. Here was our entertainment! We leaned out the windows and gazed upwards. Big, fat drops splatted on the driveway, a couple at first, here and there. The leaves on the trees were twisting round and flaunting their pale green undersides. Then the skies gushed.

Just as fast as the storm had rolled in, Nicole had me by the hand, dragging me outside. We kicked off our Keds at the door and ran up her driveway. It had rained so hard, so quickly that puddles were already forming and streams were running down the side of the road to the gutters. We jumped and splashed and squealed and kicked and laughed - laughed with sheer glee - through the end of the storm, ignoring the choruses of "Jesus, girls, really!," coming from the house.

It was one of those moments that you begged yourself to hold onto, to enjoy as the kid you really still were, because you were on the cusp of being too cool for everything of the sort. Hanging with the older kids and partying and driving around in cars with your newly-licensed friends and worrying about kissing boys and not being seen as a little girl anymore was all-consuming. There wasn't time for silliness anymore, friends might not think you could cut it in the big leagues.

Except when moments like this presented itself, with one of your best friends out of the gaggle, who was on the same page as far as taking high school by storm, but, like you, peeked back over her shoulder every now and then and wanted it all to be easy and uncomplicated again. Who thought maybe there was something to that notion of not trying to grow up too fast, which at that tender age just couldn't admit to.

I'll never forget that day with Nicole. After jumping and laughing ourselves into a breathless tizzy, we held hands, peering up into the sky, letting the rain soak us through and drop into our mouths. And reveled in the sheer giddiness of being a kid... on the verge of not.

quiet sundays

Growing up, we were one of those traditional families who stayed home on Sundays. Family day.

I'd pad down the stairs to the sound of soft rock and the crinkle of the Sunday paper, while the smell of instant coffee and bacon gently nudged me out of sleep. Most times sister Sara had already been down for her hangover nourishment and would pass me on the stairs on her way back to bed for another couple hours.

That was one thing about breakfast - Mom would make you whatever you wanted, but it had to be within an hour of Dad's eggs being cracked into the pan or you missed your opportunity for something homemade. After the one hour window, you'd still be fed, but it would be standard Monday thru Friday fare - oatmeal, Eggos, Life or Pop Tarts. We'd wade through the massive paper, passing the funnies, pointing to the day's favorite. There would be the lure of the Toys R Us flier and helping mom clip coupons because that meant playing with scissors.

Then there would be a couple of chores - raking leaves or stacking wood in the fall; pushing beans in the spring. Mom would resume her post in the kitchen , putting a roast in the oven and preparing all of the favorite fixings.

There would always be the Three Stooges and then sports on TV - most notably the Patriots, but the Bruins, Red Sox or Celtics were stand-ins off season. During football season you could hit up Dad for a juice cup of beer, even as a grade-schooler. Sometimes two if Dad was already a few deep and Mom wasn't looking. Fetching pull-tab cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the garage was part of the deal.

There were times those family days felt oppressive. A restriction to my social life. Other kids were hanging out, going to the movies! Through college and into my twenties, often I was torn. Who were these other alien kids who wanted to get out and about, to shop, drink, see a movie? Didn't they want to sit still, read, watch TV? Other times it was liberating - it was my time to do whatever I wanted. Watch football all day at the Beer Garden? Mimosas, Bloody Mary's, IPAs? Shopping in Harvard Square and a burger at Shea's? Heaven.

This was one of those mornings that bring me back to my quiet Sunday roots. Snuggling in bed for longer than anticipated. Bright blue skies, soft rock on the radio, the news online, a hot breakfast and coffee (not-instant). A couple chores, more snuggling.

Glimpses of a near certain future of more family days ahead.