It’s my Grandma’s 85th birthday and, oh, how she loves it when we broadcast her age. A few years ago when my Dad turned 50 she told him, “Stop telling people your age. They are going to add some and come up with my age.”
A friend of mine went up to her after Colin was born to congratulate her on becoming a great-grandmother. “Ah . . . um . . . yes,” was her reply. Well, we took to calling her G.G. for great-grandma and she spells it Gigi.
I’ve always admired my grandmother a lot. While other little kids were visiting their grandmas and baking cookies and learning how to knit, I was touring Gigi’s office and learning origami. People are often surprised to learn that the reason I went to the college I did was because my grandmother worked there as head of publishing. Astonished looks I get for my “executive grandma.”
When I was a small girl I was not allowed to play with Barbie. (If I haven’t written a blog entry on that, I owe you one.) So I had the Sunshine Family. (Rock on, fellow 70s love children.) The family was Steve, Stephanie and Baby Sweets who lived in the woods and lived off the land and their love. Anyway, you could also buy the grandparent dolls. My grandma was horrified when she saw Grandma Sunshine’s clothing of peasant dresses and long aprons. Gigi sewed her a complete 1970’s grandma-on-the-go wardrobe of flowing, embellished afghans and polyester pantsuits.
About 10 years ago she had a brain aneurysm and was air lifted to a regional hospital. We thought she’d never be the same, but as soon as she woke up she was mad she’d paid for an expensive helicopter ride and couldn’t remember it.
That’s my Gigi.