Nonnie
My maternal grandmother's name was Clara Mae Cross, but she preferred to be called Mae. I just called her Nonnie. She played the piano during the church services (Dutch Reformed) and taught crafts to the kids (seemed to involve a lot of popsicle sticks) and took care of her husband and her grandkids (my grandfather and us.) She was the one who laid out my grandfather's breakfast every single morning, just the way he liked it.
She was a smallish woman, about five foot three, and she sported a halo of white hair that she had "done" every week at the beauty parlor. If it rained, she put on the clear plastic bonnet she kept in her purse so as not to ruin her hairdo.
Her purse, in fact, was the repository of all things mysterious and wonderful. She was a pack rat (although she would vehemently deny this if accused) and therefore in her purse could be found a wide variety of items that she kept there "just in case." If you were hungry, she always could be counted on to produce several varieties of candy from the depths of her bag. If, for some reason, you needed a coffee stirrer, she always had a few that she had lifted from the local McDonalds. Tissues, cough drops, band aids -- no problem. She kept it all in her purse.
Only now that I'm older have I begun to truly appreciate everything she did for me. Unlike my other set of grandparents, who, when I stayed with them, simply made me a part of their daily routines, my mother's mother tried her best to fill up every hour of the time I spent at her house. I realize now how much time and forethought she must have put into dreaming up things for me to do while I was there. She took me to innumerable Disney movies at the local theater. She dreamed up hundreds of craft projects for me to do. She took me to the ceramics studio more times than I care to remember. She took me to the local 5 and 10 to pick out little toys or books or other such things.
Amazingly, she never acted as if she'd rather be doing something else during these little activities. I never got the impression that she wanted me to hurry because she had other things to do. She was never tired. She was never cranky. She cared as much about whatever activity we were doing as I was...but of course, I know now that she must have been bored senseless and probably would much rather have been sitting on the sofa with her feet up watching tv. But that just wasn't in her.
She always seemed to be in a rush. Not harried, but just in a hurry to get from one task to another. She sometimes would hustle from room to room at a funny little half-jog. If she wasn't cooking, she was cleaning. If she wasn't cleaning, she was ironing, if she wasn't doing any of that she was sitting in her chair, crocheting or working on some sort of project. I swear I never saw that woman just sit there and do nothing. I think she must have been a victim of that Protestant work ethic you've heard so much about...idle hands are the devil's work, all that.
She put cold cloths on my head when I was sick. She tucked me into bed and kissed me goodnight. She cleaned spills off my clothes. She let me stay up until midnight on New Year's Eve and she let me play the piano in the sunroom. When I was taking a bath, she would sit next to the tub and tell me stories she made up on the spur of the moment. She did not, however, say she loved me very often. She didn't need to. No matter where I went, no matter what happened in my life, she was always a quiet, comforting oasis, always there to welcome me with open arms and feed me stuff my mother didn't want me to eat.
I wish I had appreciated everything she did for me back when she did it...but perhaps, for me, being able to take for granted that someone loved me enough to completely take care of me was the best gift of all.
8:16:13 PM 
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