My two favorite blogger-girls recently wrote about cherished family moments and the births of their children (they're on my blog roll) and it got me thinking about my granny, Phyl.
Granny Phyl was my step, then later, adopted grandmother (our family tree is a little complicated).
Granny Phyl liked the Reds and sometimes she even watched the Braves. Making apple dumplings and crocheting were only interrupted by the occasional book. Her best friend was her calico cat named Annie, who liked to sit on a small ledge in the window of Granny's bedroom. Every fall, without fail, a canister of "Buckeyes" would come in the mail (for ya'll in the South, "Buckeyes" are chocolate covered peanut butter balls, made by the pound, not the cup). We would make our twice yearly trips to Granny's in the spring and fall (just in time for the World Series, which she always watched) and while we would visit, she might teach you how to knit, or maybe fashion a riding horse out of a old broom handle and a clean sock. Spiral notebooks with hand written recipes filled her small kitchen closet. Around her kitchen table is where we decided on our second child's name. And Granny's hands made the best Christmas present I have ever, ever received.
We weren't blood, but we were something just as good...