Whenever I write about my grandma – I usually mean my mom’s mom. We saw her very often.

Although my dad’s mom lived just as close, we didn’t see her very much. She was busy raising my cousins.  She would have been about my age when my uncle died. I cannot imagine taking in three rambunctious boys at 60.

My memories of her are limited. I remember her wearing boy’s tennis shoes (sneaker options for women were different than they are now).  At the time I wondered why. Now I know: her feet hurt.

As she aged, her hair remained mostly brown, and I don’t think she colored it – because mine is the same way.  In fact, when I look in the mirror, I often wonder at how my grandma’s face is looking back at me.

She was an accomplished knitter and crocheter. I still have the little blue afghan she made for me.  While I knit ( dishcloths and hats only – I  cannot for the life of me get pairs of things, like socks or mittens,  to come out the same size), I have never been very good at deciphering the instructions for crochet.

The colors she picked for some of her projects were outrageously bright; something else we have in common. I wonder if she had some color blindness, too?

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