CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE GRANDMA’S SOUL
CHICKEN SOUP
FOR THE
GRANDMA’S SOUL
Stories to Honor and Celebrate
the Ageless Love of
Grandmothers
Jack Canfield
Mark Victor Hansen
LeAnn Thieman
Backlist, LLC, a unit of
Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC
Cos Cob, CT
www.chickensoup.com
Contents
Introduction
1. THE BIRTH OF A GRANDMA
Babies, Boredom and Bliss Janet Hall Wigler
By Any Other Name Carol McAdoo Rehme
A Grandmother Is Born Sally Friedman
The Longest Week Teresa Pitman
She Looks Just Like . . . Margaret Lang
Someone’s Grandmother Valerie A. Horner
A Grandmother Again Harriet May Savitz
What Will I Call You? Ruth Hancock
Love at First Sight Laura Lawson
Loving Lauren Rachel R. Patrick
And Then There Was Hailey Patricia Lorenz
2. GENERATIONS OF LOVE
Oohoo Debra D. Peppers
One Lonely Little Boy Roger Kiser
The Lincoln Zephyr at Midnight Kathryn Kimzey Judkins
The Fabric of Love Deborah Shouse
A Legacy of Love Libby C. Carpenter
My Official Storybook Grandma Michelle Rocker
Deposition Stew Bobbi Carducci
Thanks Stephen D. Rogers
Aunt Tooty Elayne Clift
If It’s Tuesday Alice Malloy
A Day at Grandmom’s House Harriet May Savitz
This Ain’t No Bull Joanie Gilmore
Everything but the Kitchen Sink Nadia Ali
Trying Times and Dirty Dishes Cynthia M. Hamond
A Thank-You Note to Grandma Gina Antonios
3. BLESSINGS
A Holy Moment Sheila S. Hudson
Grandma’s Prayers Sharon Ozee Siweck
Angel in the Clouds Jean Kinsey
Parting Gifts Marcia Swearingen
A Teenager’s Song for Gramma Angela Thieman-Dino
Love and Water Emily Sue Harvey
The Perspective of a Pansy Laura L. Smith
Red and White Carnations Barbara Hibschman
The Feeling Ellie Braun-Haley
Picked Just for You Bonnie Hanson
Shiny Red Shoes Bettye Martin-McRae
Monday Night Tea Delores Christian Liesner
4. ADVENTURES WITH GRANDMA
Outing with Gram Delores Christian Liesner
Grandma Days Maria Harden
Afternoon Delight Diane M. Vanover
Two Dedicated Grandmas Janet Lynn Mitchell
Go-Cart Grandma Patricia Lorenz
Surf’s Up, Grama Pam Trask
Grandma and the Snow Bank Ann Kirk Shorey
Grandma’s River Melodie Lynn Tilander
Journey Home Renee Hixson
Travels with Grandma Phyllis W. Zeno
Going Places Carolyn Mott Ford
Will He Remember? Maria Harden
5. THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD
Love Never to Be Blinded Nancy V. Bennett
Pennies from Heaven Emily Erickson
Dusting in Heaven Denise Peebles
Healing Jennifer Oliver
I Will Remember Shelley Ann Wake
Love’s Labors Found Sally Friedman
God’s Hands Shirley Pope Waite
God’s Good Time Cynthia M. Hamond
Jenny’s Antique Harriet May Savitz
Sandwich Generation Tricia Short
Secret Weapon Jennifer Oliver
The Wooden Spoon Beverly Houseman
Out of the Mouths of Babes Jane Elsdon
6. GRANDMA’S LESSONS
Granny’s Journey Ruth Hancock
Confidence Jody Walters
The Pine Tree Kimberly Ripley
Grandma’s Cake Norma Favor
Frozen Water . . . Melted Hearts Cheri Lynn Cowell
Nana Susan Farr-Fahncke
Grandmother’s Quiet Addiction Nancy V. Bennett
Like the Turtle Erin Hoffman
Nan Rachel Wallace-Oberle
Gram’s Garden Paula Mauqiri Tindall
Digging in the Dirt Linda Apple
The True Lesson of Homework Sally Friedman
I Can Make It Grow Betty King
Motherhood 202 Nancy Gibbs
7. GIFTS FROM GRANDMA
Unexpected Gift J. Kenneth Kreider
Grandma’s Attic Treasures Anne Johnson
A Quilted Life Julie Dunbar
Sister Said Jean Jeffrey Gietzen
Gifts of the Heart Renie Burghardt
Marking Time Shirley Jump
Green Ink Laura Smith
Timeless Generosity Patti Lawson
Grandma’s Surprise Party Stephanie “Stacy” Thompson
A Grandmother’s Gifts Sally Friedman
Star of the Week Bonnie S. Grau
My Present Barbara G. Drotar
Grandma Wanda John McCaslin
Rocks and Restoration Kathleen Craft Boehmig
8. LEGACIES AND HEIRLOOMS
Grandma’s Words Laura Mueller
Grandmother’s Language of Love Trudy Reeder
Gutsy Grandma Karen J. Olson
Treasured Gift Cookie Curci
More Than an Heirloom Susan Chesser Branch
A Leap of Faith Hannah Amgott
The Locket Tal Aviezer and Jason Cocovinis
Grandma’s Necklace Carol Spahr
A Sister’s Visit Paula Mauqiri Tindall
The Wrecking Crew K. K. Choate
Who Is Jack Canfield?
Who Is Mark Victor Hansen?
Who Is LeAnn Thieman?
Contributors
Permissions
Introduction
When our children left the nest, we breathed a sigh of relief for a child-rearing job well done. Thankfully that reprieve was short-lived, for just when we thought we could never love another as deeply as our own, our child places their child into our arms . . . and the lay-down-my-life-for-you love starts all over again. Nothing in this world can prepare us for this moment, and nothing can compare as this child of our child steals our breath and our hearts. Then we watch as the baby’s great-grandmother—our mother— embraces this miracle, bearing witness to this ageless mystery of maternal love. Happily we resume the work of caring for a child—but this time with less stress and even more fun! The dance of life goes on—the family circle grows.
Chicken Soup for the Soul applauds how grandmas bless all our lives, and we are honored to bless theirs. These true stories bring hope and happiness to those who caress us, not only with their hands but with their hearts. Chicken Soup for the Grandma’s Soul celebrates the love and joy only a grandma can know. Whether she’s rocking or rock-and-rolling, knitting or surfing, hugging or hiking, every grandma will find herself in these loving, laughing, even life-saving stories.
On behalf of all the lives they’ve touched and changed forever, we say thank you!
1
THE BIRTH
OF A
Soon I will be an old, white-haired lady into whose lap someone places a baby, saying, “Smile, Grandma!” I, who myself so recently was photographed on my grandmother’s lap.
Liv Ullmann
Babies, Boredom and Bliss
When a child is born, so is a grandmother.
Judith Levy
“We’re not going in there, are we?” I asked, appalled, looking inside the baby store my friend was determined to enter. I’d come a long w
ay to visit . . . hundreds of miles, and she wanted to shop in a baby store? Quite frankly, I found those kinds of stores boring, the way I found most babies boring. I’d never been accused of being enthusiastic over little creatures who couldn’t walk, talk or do anything except scream, make a mess and demand all of one’s attention.
Turning on the well-worn heel of her running shoe, my friend shot me a steely look. “We won’t be long,” she promised, striding into the store.
Unhappily I trailed after her. She’s changed, I thought grumpily as I stifled a yawn and tottered through the crammed aisles on my high heels. Definitely changed, I thought sourly as she spent the next two hours oohing and aahing over everything to do with infants until I thought I’d go insane.
What can I say in defense of my once-glamorous friend, who now smelled of spit-up and stumbled tiredly through the store misty-eyed with joy?
She’d become a grandmother.
That fact was responsible for her gleeful preoccupation with the world of little things, the reason she didn’t have time to dye the gray in her hair, the reason she’d traded in her classic clothing for jogging gear, the reason she didn’t seem able to talk about anything. Except babies. And most particularly, one little grandbaby.
After helping cram purchases into every nook and cranny of her car, I reminded my friend of a lunch date with our high school girlfriends at a hot new restaurant that featured elegant dining in an atmosphere that catered to people like me—tourists with hard-earned time and money to spend, who wanted to be pampered in a childfree environment.
I squeezed into the passenger side of the car, holding a huge teddy bear on my lap, thankful that soon I’d be in a world of my peers where conversation would veer toward spas, salons and shopping.
But I was sadly, pathetically mistaken. No sooner did we get to the restaurant than my friend took out her wallet and proceeded to spread pictures of her grandson over the gleaming table, expecting us to ooh and aah over the bald-headed tyke with the toothless smile. Every woman did. Including the waitress.
But not me.
What’s the matter? I thought, depressed. Am I the only woman on the planet who dislikes baby talk? It wasn’t that I didn’t like babies. I did. I’d borne and raised one myself. Lisa had turned into a lovely young woman. Intelligent, kind, ambitious. We had a good relationship based on respect, love and mutual interests. But I had never been what one could call maternal. And what’s more, my friend never had been either, I thought, glaring at her over a glass of wine. I couldn’t understand what had happened to her.
We’d been teenage mothers together. We’d married and grown up with our daughters together. Together as single mothers we’d struggled in a world where we tried to fit work and relationships and parenting all in one. We’d been the best of friends.
What had happened to bring us apart?
I could only think of one thing. One word. Actually, two words. Grand. Mother.
What was so grand about that? I thought irately.
Months later, my daughter called. “Mom, guess what?”
“I’m going to have a baby!”
The phone slid down my face as visions of gray hair and sweatpants filled my mind, and the sounds of squawking at all hours of the day and night filled my ears. I tasted weariness as I imagined trundling after an infant who needed smelly diapers changed while testing formula to feed a hungry, wailing new soul.
New soul.
I burst into tears.
“Are you glad? Or are you mad?” Lisa shouted into the phone. With trembling fingers I juggled the receiver and said through a throat suddenly gone dry, “I’m not sure.” Silently I tried out the unfamiliar label. Grandma. “When’s the due date?” I whispered hoarsely.
“Christmas day!”
Christmas in Seattle.
I flew over on the twenty-third. Lisa met me at the airport. Beaming. Huge. I remembered how that felt. Remembered how . . . how wonderful it was! How joyful! How expectant! For the second time since I heard the news I burst into tears.
On December twenty-sixth Bronwyn entered the world and stole my breath, my heart, my soul. My entire identity. “Let Grandma hold her!” I shouted, almost knocking my poor son-in-law off his feet as I snatched my granddaughter out of his arms. I looked down into her precious, angelic face and . . . burst into tears.
Over the next few days I fought like a dragon to hold her, feed her, change her. I shopped in the local supermarket with my hair pulled into an untidy ponytail, dark smudges under my eyes from day-old mascara, sleepless nights and sentimental weeping.
As I sat in the market’s deli, rocking Bronwyn in my arms and trying not to get spit-up on my jogging suit, I reflected on my new heart, new eyes, new senses. And I knew that up until the day she’d come into the world, I had been blind. The miracle of her birth had wrought a miracle in me, one I could not get enough of. Babies. I planned to call my friend to see if she’d be available to go shopping next time I was in town. There were some baby stores I was eager to visit. I hoped she’d bring photos.
I couldn’t wait to show her mine.
Janet Hall Wigler
By Any Other Name
What is in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.
William Shakespeare
Contemplating my impending role as grandparent, I spent countless hours and multiple conversations debating what my new grandchild should call me. After all, this was a big decision: a sacred moniker—set in stone—to be used by countless future grandchildren.
I mused over the merits and disadvantages of various names, rolling them around my tongue, tasting them, savoring them—trying them on for size. Grandmother? Too formal. Grandma? Mundane. Nana? Nah.
From the quirky Punkin’ to the colloquial Gran, the whimsical Oma to the formal Grandma-ma (with an elegant accent on the last syllable), I experimented with them all.
“Give it up,” said my more experienced girlfriends. “That first grandbaby will call you what she will. And, anyway, the actual name won’t matter. Why, you’ll be so thrilled, it won’t matter what she calls you. Trust us,” they nodded in agreement. “You won’t care.”
Well, grandbaby Avery turned one and my daughter put her on the phone so I could hear her chatter across the two thousand miles separating us. I knew this verbose babe’s burgeoning repertoire now included words like drink, ball, banana, hi and even the names of several animals. With any luck . . .
“Hello, sweet pea,” I gushed. “Happy birthday!”
“Avery, say ‘hi’ to Grammy,” my daughter coaxed at the other end. “Say ‘hi.’”
And then it happened. It really happened. A precious, breathy little voice pulled together two words from her vocabulary and cooed into the phone, “Hi, dog.”
My daughter giggled, then erupted into a full laugh— and baby Avery repeated her new achievement with enthusiasm, delighted that it appeared to make her mommy so happy.
“Hi dog, hi dog, hi dog.”
Huh, I laughed, my girlfriends were wrong. I care. I care a lot.
Carol McAdoo Rehme
A Grandmother Is Born
Of all the joys that lighted the suffering earth, what joy is welcomed like a newborn child?
Caroline Norton
It’s the phone call I’ve been awaiting for nine long months, yet when it comes, it’s still a shock.
“This is it,” our son-in-law says with a certain catch in his voice. “Jill’s in labor.”
And so the adventure begins. On the ride to the hospital, my husband and I cannot speak. For a man and woman who are about to become grandparents for the first time, it’s all been said. All the fervent prayers for a healthy, whole baby already have been issued up to a higher power.
So we ride in silence, the silence of apprehension, excitement and joy waiting to explode.
At
the birthing suite, all is surreal. While the rest of the inhabitants of planet Earth go about their business and pleasure on this brilliantly sunny afternoon, the entire world, for me, is enclosed within the walls of this waiting area.
My husband tries to read.
I pace in an unlikely caricature of those fathers-in-waiting from the Neanderthal days when mothers labored alone. Suddenly, I understand how those fathers must have felt.
Every now and then the midwife appears with a “bulletin.” Those bulletins take on the breathless significance of a pronouncement about the future of world peace.
An hour passes. Two. Three. “Soon,” our son-in-law tells us breathlessly in his one and only break from being onsite labor coach.
And at 3:42 on an ordinary afternoon, standing at the door of a modern birthing suite, I hear a cry. A baby’s cry.
My heart stops.
Nothing in the world could have prepared me for this moment. Nothing will ever be the same for me in this glorious universe.
Today, I am somebody’s grandmother!
Hannah—all seven pounds, thirteen ounces of her—has burst into the world.
I meet her moments later and fall madly, desperately, hopelessly in love. Nestled in my daughter’s arm is this child of my child, a perfect pink and white miniature. I weep and laugh and thank God for allowing us this moment, this gift, this day.
Time is suspended. It is the deepest, most profound privilege to watch these new parents as they cuddle their baby daughter and explore her incredibly sweet face, her silky skin, her downy head.
Our son-in-law’s parents are as speechless as we are. Hannah is the “we” of their son and our daughter, made tangible. In this room, on this day, we all know that this infant is our link to immortality. And this gritty, urban hospital suddenly feels holy.
It is another spectacular moment when I watch Hannah’s great-grandmother—my own mother—meet her. I bear joyous witness to the awesome, incredible continuity of life’s longing for itself.
Later, her new aunts and uncles greet Hannah, laugh joyously at her perfection, and touch her tiny, tiny hand.