I spent a lot of time over at MawMaw and PawPaw’s house growing up. My dad’s parents, they had lived in our teeny-tiny town for all of my existence and most of my dad’s. When my mom’s maternity leave ended, my grandparents graciously accepted me into their home for ten hours a day.
Some of my most vivid memories include my MawMaw teaching me to tie my shoes (sitting in front of me, so now I tie backwards), trying on closets of outdated fancy clothes and shoes, interrupting my PawPaw’s afternoon Matlock viewing while practicing the piano (unbeknownst to me at the time – I was a self-centered only child), and making crazy concoctions in the kitchen.
As a 10-year-old I would microwave creations of flour and food coloring, with an array of spices thrown in. I know it stunk up their house, but my precious grandparents didn’t say one word. This is where my love for creating began. It’s also where my love for roasted marshmallows began – my MawMaw’s gas stove was the culprit.
A few years after my PawPaw’s death, my parents, aunts and uncles packed my MawMaw’s things and moved her to an assisted living facility. She was forgetful – we would have the same conversations every five minutes. Granted, they were good conversations. She needed to be some where that could prepare meals for her and prompt her to eat. All of her meals ran together in her mind.
About a month ago, my mom mentioned MawMaw’s china. Her beautiful china set, acquired in England, and packed up in the teeny-tiny town for safe keeping. I had always been told it was mine, and I had waited for it.
Milo had waited for this moment, too.
I think my MawMaw would appreciate eating a Monday night peanut butter and jelly off her china. I will think of her every time I do so.