My grandmother died at the age of 92 over 10 years ago. She was a grandmother who enjoyed her grandchildren as we got older rather than when we were younger and toddling about. I'm not saying that she didn't love us but she just felt that she had already brought up her family and was finished with all that so she never babysat for her grandchildren, although I'm sure she would have done so in special circumstances. This didn't seem to bother anyone and we didn't feel unloved because of it. She thoroughly enjoyed our company and she liked nothing better than talking about the family when her three daughters were growing up. She used to talk about how different they were in their likes and dislikes and their habits and how they related to each other. She'd say, "Anne and Jean were nothing alike. Why, they were as different as night and day. Jean would see a girl walking down the street and she'd say, "Isn't she pretty?" and Anne would say, "Well, I don't see anything pretty about her." Grammie would say, "Everything about them was different. They didn't think alike, their tastes weren't the same. You couldn't find two people more different than they were." She'd talk about how they used to take turns cooking dinner after school when they were older as my grandmother worked in a bank and also as a bookkeeper in the office of a shoeshop during the depression years. Grammie would say, "Anne always made everything taste good. She always "spiced" up everything just right. Jean could cook but everything always tasted bland compared to Anne's dinners." My grandmother said that during the depression Anne (my mother) would take what little spending money she had and go to the store to buy eggs instead of candy. My mother would walk down the street just as happy as could be with an egg in each hand like it was the most wonderful thing in the world. I wish I could remember all the stories she told me. My grandmother always enjoyed talking about the old days and how she used to take the train into the next town when she worked in the shoeshop. Anyway, I can't remember half of the stories she used to tell but the ones I do remember she used to tell over and over again. The funny thing about it is I didn't mind hearing the same stories over and over. Her face would light up like a candle when she talked about her family. Even though I heard the same stories too many times to count, it didn't seem to matter. She would emphasize different details about the story each time she told it so it was always new and interesting. My grandmother was getting forgetful in her later years but sometimes I thought it wasn't so much that she was forgetful as wanting to remember these times because they meant so much to her. I'd be very happy to hear those stories a thousand times more if I could have her here with me again and I'm sure each one of you has similar stories to tell about their own grandmother or grandfather. I knew she was talking about the things that were important to her and closest to her heart. When she told these stories, it almost seemed like she was re-living these events all over again--she looked so happy. I was very lucky to have a grandmother who enjoyed sharing them with me.