97 and counting

I went to see my grandmother in a nursing home the other day. It is almost painful to write that, because I didn’t think she’d ever end up there.

She is 97 years old and still very sharp, but physically she can’t take care of herself any longer. Her eyesight is failing, her legs are unsteady. She didn’t want to move in with one of her daughters, because, she said, “They’ve already raised their kids. They don’t need to be going through it again with me.”

I never knew my grandfather, since he died when I was a baby, so I don’t know if I’m much like he was. But I’m a lot like my grandmother. I got my sense of humor from her, for better or worse. Almost every time I talk to her, she has a new joke for me, and I try to have one for her.

We used to always have a family Christmas gathering at her house, and we would all gather around to watch her open her presents. If she ever got anything in a big box, she would say, “Oh, I hope somebody got me a man this year.”

The first time I ever drank coffee I was at her house. My mother had told me I couldn’t, but you know how grandmammas are. I was about 12, and she fixed me some, and put some sugar and evaporated milk in it, and I loved it. It was our little secret. It’s still the way I like to drink it to this day.

She was born in 1911. It seems almost impossible that I know and talk to somebody who was alive that long ago. And even though she can’t see me clearly, it is always enjoyable talking to her. We talked about the upcoming election a little bit, and she told me that she believed that Hillary Clinton is not going to run for president again, because her real ambition is to be on the Supreme Court. She might have a point. But she hopes not, because she doesn’t really care for Hillary.

When her daughter – and my mother – died a couple of years ago, we did not think that grandmamma would make it to the graveside service. But we got word just before it started that she was on the way, and when the car pulled up and she got out and began walking slowly to her seat - well, anybody who wasn’t already crying started at that moment.

I suppose she seems happy enough in the nursing home, though I don’t know if anybody would ever really enjoy being there. Every time I go in a nursing home, I tell myself that I will never let anyone put me in one. But I know that’s just big talk. When and if that day comes, I doubt I’ll have a choice.

I just hope somebody comes by every now and then to talk to me about the election.