My Mother’s mother, my Grandma Hart, is a typical woman of her generation in many ways.  She loves cottage cheese & fruit, board games and cross stich.  She makes addictive chocolate drop cookies, keeps a calendar of all our birthdays and always has chewing gum somewhere inside her beige purse.

Yet, she often surprises me, and sometimes shocks me; and I like that.  She’s prudish and private yet the raciest lingerie I’ve ever owned was a gift from her which I opened on Christmas Day years ago in front of my entire family, much to their delight.  She’s well read and cultured, a stickler with money but consistently hands over the reins of her life to the men she has married.

There’s a sneaky gypsy traveler trapped somewhere in her demure nature and having already seen all of America, she just recently went on her first trip abroad, to France, at the age of 75.  There’s more of my Mom’s wild spirit in her than either of them would like to admit, though I often see them look at each other as if unable to fathom how two such different souls were ever brought together in the first place.  I suppose though that is the tradeoff in life, the balancing act of two completely varied things, shaken and stirred, in the hopes of creating something new out of the threads of something old.  And as the cycle continues, with me and those to follow, I can only hope that those glimmers, those idiosyncrasies that make my Grandma who she is, show up somewhere down the line.