Some days memories flit in on the breeze, gently floating through the air around you until you breathe them in . . . give them a name. Today it is my Grandma come to visit me, though she is gone these many long years. A couple of summers I visited with her in her little yellow house. She must have been in her early 70’s then and widowed for a bit. I always thought her so beautiful, my Grandma. She smiled a lot and hummed some days. I loved her house, her routines, the freedom she had, the perfect “oldness” of some of her belongings. I remember her teaching me to make coffee in a stove top percolator pot and how good that coffee tasted in her old china cups. I remember buttermilk, prunes, clobbered eggs and slightly stale candy, patent leather purses and wide heeled white church shoes. She read Corrie Ten Boom’s “The Hiding Place”, watched “Highway to Heaven” and played “The Gay Butterfly” on her organ. She told me to smile more, reminding me that you catch more bees with honey. She served me tea and taught me tea etiquette; she gave me chores and thought me a bit lazy. It was often scary to ride in any car she drove … she’d sometimes stop in the middle of all the traffic to point out something, tapping on the car window with her still thick, shining fingernail. She told me over and over again the things she thought most important to good health . . . chew each bite of food 20 times so your body didn’t have to work too hard to digest it and be sure you have at least two “movements” each day. She’d spend hours at her meals at that Duncan Phyfe table, chewing . . . one meal almost leading up to the preparation of the next. Milk of Magnesia was freely and cheerfully doled out to everyone she thought might be in need of its freeing properties. Today, Grandma, I am missing you. I wish you were here. I’d love to make you a cup of tea and chat with you now that I’m older . . . know more of you. I know you are in heaven; you spoke of going there so often. Someday I will see you there and we will both smile.