My mother's grandmother - on the maternal side - was a spitfire. I knew her barely - she died when I was eight - but I have vivid memories of her. I loved her. My mother says that Grandma Estelle would laugh when I was rowdy and would tell my mother that I was just like my mother when my mother was that age. I believe there was some "what goes around, comes around" mirth in Grandma Estelle's voice when she made that observation.
I remember once that she gave me a real tomahawk that I destroyed in an afternoon. Hey, I was five. Hopefully it wasn't real. I think it was though - maybe not real as in dangerous, but as in a real Indian toy (as we have Cherokee blood going very far back - to the Trail of Tears actually). When it didn't last in my five-year-old hands, she told me not to worry. Things happen. I loved my Grandma Estelle.
A few weeks ago, my mother (who is moving to Chicago from El Paso and so is downsizing) carefully had wrapped and shipped a set of wine glasses that belonged to Grandma Estelle. Actually, I think they might be liqueur glasses, or perhaps martini ones. They're beautiful. One set is lovely pink with grapes etched on them - not big, but the etched grapes are my clue they likely were intended as wine glasses. Another set - of four - are clear with a red base. In these four, I see my grandma. She had that flair of color, just like the red does on these glasses. I look at these glasses, and see my grandma - drinking from them, yes - but actually, I can see her choosing them too. The pink set was chosen for company. The red set was chosen just because.
Here are the pink:
And here are the red:
And here is my cat Annie attempting to navigate the huge box that delivered the glasses: