There is not one childhood memory and even many of my adult memories that do not include my Grandma Norman.  As Dave and I laid in bed last night, chatting about our childhood memories, he asked me the question, “If you could have thirty minutes to chat with someone in Heaven, who would you choose?”  So many of my family have taken up residence in Heaven that the question he posed left me pouring through names and connections of those who have gone.

The one who stood out for me was Grandma Norman.  She and I were always kindred spirits.  When I was born, my parents had just purchased the house across the street from my grandparents.  Mom and Dad were young and nine months into a marriage when I came along.  My grandmother, who did not work out of the home, was there to help my sixteen-year-old mother and my twenty-one-year-old father step into the world of parenthood.  Heck, they were stepping into the new world of marriage, full-time employment, and a slew of other roles at such tender ages.  It was the early 60s and totally common place … adulthood came early.

Grandma had raised four children. When her first, a granddaughter, came along, it was instant love.  She had spent her life as a seamstress, so from the moment my mother announced that she was expecting, my grandmother went to work. I was pretty much the best dressed baby on the block. Hancock Fabrics became my grandmother’s second home. According to my mom, my layette was completely hand sewn by Grandma Norman.  Blankets, onesies, and even diapers filled my room and awaited my arrival. Later, dresses and frilly britches made there way into my every growing trousseau. There are times when I look at all the pictures, and I wish color photos had been available.  I still have the hand crocheted booties, bonnet, and sweater along with the little pink hand embroidered dress that my sisters and I wore home from the hospital. I just can’t seem to part with it because it reflects her.

Over the years, I have keen memories of laying on my grandmother’s bed as she sewed.  Clumps of fabric would evolve in to beautiful blouses, dresses, or sleek slacks.  Themed rooms of Tinkerbell, Cinderella, ballerinas in pink tutus and later years bedspreads of 45 rpm records adorned our rooms.  If I imagined it….my grandmother made it come to life through that old Singer sewing machine.  As she sewed, she would sing old hymns or tell me stories of her childhood.  She told stories of my mother, the only daughter in the four, and how her brothers looked out for her.  The stories matched with the relationships I saw in my uncles who spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s home.

It seemed like weekly we would gather around grandma’s table and enjoy a huge meal. Fried chicken, pot roast, enchiladas, meatloaf, pork chops, ham and the list could go on and on.  You know…my grandmother never had a dishwasher.  She used the time at the sink to check in with her kids as they cleared the table and dried the dishes she washed.  The level of noise in my grandmother’s kitchen was deafening, but it was loud in a good way…a productive, informative, loving family way.

When my parents moved us from the city to the country…my grandmother, now a widow, moved with us.  It wasn’t but a few years later that I began to date Mike.  Four years later he proposed and my grandmother, with her eyesight dimming, tucked me in the car and off we went to purchase the material for my wedding dress.  Like my mother before me, my grandmother would complete the cycle…satin, pearls, and lace would all adorn my dress.  I would lay on the couch as she sewed at my parents kitchen table.  White sheets covered the floor and my mom’s footstool sat next to the table. It was quite the feat to balance upon that thing while my grandma measured, folded, darted, basted and fit my dress. Each time I tried it on, I would marvel at the beauty of the piece. When she finally proclaimed it done…I cried. It was a beautiful labor of love.

My mother submitted pictures of both her dress and mine to the Daily Oklahoman and nominated my grandmother for the Golden Thimble Award.  She was the July 1980 winner!  It was really fun to watch her open the Sunday paper and turn to the “Women’s” section of the paper.  As she scanned the pages for the newest styles and articles, her eyes grew wide as they fell upon the article written in honor of her and her gift with both needle and thread. Her family knew of the talent and love in each stitch, but now, so many others would know as well. It makes me smile to this very day to remember the look of pride on her face.  That same look was present as she watched me walk arm in arm with my father down the aisle of the church.

So many things about my relationship with my Grandma Norman are carried over to my relationship with my first grandchild.  Kayla, now thirteen, has been my little sidekick since the day she arrived.  We share each other’s secrets and a love for reading and writing.  When I am quilting, she sits in the chair in the sewing room and tells me all about her life.  We are two peas in a pod. She loves to fish, boat, and just be. Kayla does not have to be entertained. She just falls in with those she is with and makes their space a better place. Don’t get me wrong.  I share something special with each of my grandchildren…five in all…but Kayla reminds me most of the relationship I shared with Grandma Norman. We could just be.

If I had that thirty minutes to spend with Grandma, I would sing her hymns and tell her all about my life since she left here in July of 1998. I would pull out my camera and show her pictures of my children and the grands.  I would soak in the scent of her perfume as I filled my arms with hugs.  I would ask her about how to do the later years of my life and tell her how much I appreciate all the fantastic life advice she gave to me and how much time she spent cultivating me, molding me, preparing me for this thing called life. I would thank her for being the one to keep my secrets as a child and young adult. I would tell her how much she impacted my life and how blessed I am to call her grandma. She and I were two peas in a pod, and I would love to have one more chance to spend time as her mini me.