Today is my maternal grandmother’s birthday, and although she died in 1996, I keep the date on my calendar.
She and my grandfather, known as Gram and Grandad, lived outside of Buffalo, about an hour away, and throughout my early life and adolescence I seemed to be there regularly, often enough that it was always a joy and never a surprise to see her.
As a teen I smoked cigarettes in her house, in the living room with her and Grandad if it was just the three of us, or downstairs from the kitchen if there were other adults around. It was a matter of decorum, a way of accepting me for who I was (a delinquent who smoked cigarettes) while acknowledging that it wasn’t altogether acceptable.
She was a complicated person, I think, in and of a time when women were supposed to be simpler, and deserves greater consideration than this post can provide. I’ll no doubt write about her more in the future but for today, I’ll just say as I always do on this day, happy birthday, Gram! I love you!