My grandmother was a beautiful woman. She was, from my view, always old but in that old-fashioned way that Grandma's don't do anymore. Her silver hair was never dyed. Her little wire-rimmed glasses were real gold, she had them forever. I have them now. She wouldn't be caught dead in anything but corset, stockings, black oxfords and a dress with obligatory tiny flowers sprigged over it. Trousers? Never happened. And she would never have gone out without a little veiled hat. As a kid, I spent much of my time with her. She taught me good cooking and made me a needlewoman, using threads like an artist uses pigments. I loved her unreservedly, and she me. She lived to 90. Grandma told me one day, when I asked her why she always had her little well-worn prayer book in her pocket, "Sweetie, I've lived a long time. Life is hard. Moanin' and complainin' helps nothin'. My book let's me hide away and enjoy peace and quiet."

I never heard grandmother raise her voice. She never needed a pill, a shrink or a cocktail..."Well, maybe a little drop of blackberry brandy, Sweetie."

Memories of her-violet scent, soft voice, slow deliberate step, colored my life in shades of love, safety and serenity. Her way of being a grandma will tint the life I weave with my own grandbabies. But, still handing out hugs and kisses, I'll teach those who follow me a different way of growing old. My life is and will be louder, filled with colors, faster and a hell of a lot of fun. The folks behind me will need to watch out for my dust. Grandma loved her rocking chair, her quiet and her soap operas. Me? Let's rock!
(image credit: lovetoseeyou.spaces.msn.com)

The first short post is encouragement to visit www.RagingGrannies.com and Military Families Speak Out (http://mfso.org/), especially if you are concerned about the war. That's it.