The thing is, she was devoted as a grandmother. I don't think I ever knew the pain that, as a grownup now, must have existed in her. After all, her husband left for the war, came back, built a company, a house for her, then left with his secretary for parts unknown. I never heard her complain about that once.
I don't know if she ever knew how I REALLY felt about things at home. If she did, she never let on. Fact is, my mother hated me. Trouble is, my mother was her daughter.
Nana made things fun.
Her house was in a big field that had grass growing all around. It was the top of a hill (hence it's ultimate fate), and all around was abandoned stuff I loved to climb on and imagine on and hide on. She never said I couldn't. I wasn't used to that kind of freedom.
It was free at Nana's house.
She made a big deal out of eating at the Newberry's lunch counter. I could get an egg salad sandwich...that came with a pickle and chips...and a big glass of lemonade. She never told me what I couldn't have, she'd only ask me what I wanted.
Wow.
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