Grandma

As a child, a new teen really, I recall the first summer we lived in Ohio. I was thirteen and the entire family was gathered for no other reason than to be together, as far as I can recollect. Grandpa's handmade, black-stained table stood firmly supporting an insane amount of food. On the side sat Grandma's German chocolate cake with sweet coconut frosting and her angel food cake for those whose cravings didn't match Grandma's because she believed if it wasn't chocolate, why bother? She made exceptions for cheesecake. I share her DNA. I would run with fresh cut green onions she kept in a jar in the fridge and black olives stuck on the ends of all my fingers, perfect for plopping into my mouth while keeping up with a gaggle of cousins.

There was always a green bean casserole which as a child I loved but soon outgrew for less mushy, preservative-laden options and of course her famous five ingredient fruit salad. I loved that dish and always had seconds. In missing her a few years ago, I made the recipe from her handwritten notes and couldn't get past the sweetness. But in an instant, that flavor took me back. I could hear her say, "Sherri Kay" in that tone she used in most all circumstances, whether in trouble or not but my body would tense because before living in Ohio, no one called me that unless I was in fact, in trouble.

My grandma had a way of cutting to the chase, not mixing words but loving unconditionally. If it wasn't, "Sherri Kay, you've gotten too thin", then it was noting I had put on a needed ten pounds. I dare not wonder too much what she would say now that my weight is the highest it's ever been despite being healthy and balanced for me. If she was still here, I wouldn't have to wonder. She would simply state her observation. It was her way of letting me know that despite how many children and grandchildren she was permitted to love, she still saw me. I suppose some would say her noting of weight wasn't love but they would be wrong in their assessment. She was simply being herself, the strong determined woman who raised six kids on a farm and held a full time factory job. That woman was as tough as nails and loved her own way. I miss her and the boisterous crowd in her home all those years ago. I wonder about that table and who gets to gather around it now. And I wonder if I could learn to like that fruit salad again despite it's over the top sweetness. I don't know why after all this time she is on my mind. I simply miss her.