Going to the mountains in the summer with my granny is behind a great many of my happiest memories. She was an excellent seamstress, a Scrabble champ, crossword queen, bridge player, a lover of books, and a teacher by heart and profession. The only one who had the patience to bestow some of her knowledge on a little girl with wild blonde pig tails, dreams of horses, and a propensity for taking risks.
We were an odd mix, she and I, who rubbed along very well. I don't remember her ever swearing, or yelling.
She, of the good manners, proper English, gardening, world travel, Shakespeare, and the Giants. Me, of riding any horse I could catch, digging up her flower beds in search of perfect night crawlers for trout fishing, and stripping naked to swim with the water snakes and trout in the big granite pools of that high mountain stream.
Her, maker of beautifully tailored suits and coats, and I of finding a way to match the hatch.
Her, setting on the cabin's deck, snapping beans while reading a classic to a little blonde girl curled up in a wicker chair, with the sun's warming cover, til sleep overcame even the best of tales.