Just Like Her

We watch our granddaughter Addie every Thursday. We look forward to “our” day with her and always try to get outside and walk around the neighborhood when she is with us. This Thursday, Addie was not feeling well, so we kept our walk short, just a few blocks down the parkway. We had just gone a short distance and decided to turn around and head home. 

When we turned the corner to head back, I noticed another grandma approaching us with an empty stroller. We saw two tiny feet under the back wheels, inching their way toward us. The woman was holding onto the leather handle, making sure they continued in a straight line down the sidewalk. Even from a distance, I noticed that Grandma was smartly dressed for a stroll with, I assumed, her granddaughter. She was not wearing jeans, leggings, or a tunic that I wore as a retired grandma. She was in gray from head to toe, a classic neutral. She had gray hair, pulled up into a soft bun or chignon. And as she approached, I realized that her hair was neatly tucked up under her woolen beret —a dark heather-gray tam with a slight brim.

Grandma’s gray pants were not really trousers, nor were they sweatpants. She wore casual slacks with a classically mismatched gray zip-up sweater. Her shoes were soft, metal-gray, stylish, and comfortable, to be sure. But what struck me were her earrings: a solid silver button, the size of a nickel, that suggested New Mexico. I was reminded of a pair of silver earrings I had purchased from a Native American on the square while visiting Santa Fe. A classic choice for her outfit, and very chic.

We stopped as our two strollers began to pass one another. I was close enough now to fully assess her. She was a small woman, maybe about five feet four inches, and looked to be in great shape, certainly no extra poundage. She wore little to no makeup, and her face was almost wrinkle-free. In that moment, I wished I had worn a nicer shirt with my jeans and maybe dabbed on a bit of blush. 

I had her pegged as older than me; the gray hair made my assumption a bit easier. She could have been in her mid-70s; that seemed about right. We were just two grandmothers walking their sweet granddaughters on a beautiful fall day. 

We said our hellos, and a little girl peeked out from behind the stroller. I asked her how old she was, knowing full well that she was too young to respond. Grandma looked up at the sky for a moment, thinking, then replied, "18 months." I asked what her name was, and she said it was Emery. I introduced her to Addie and told her she would be two in December. She commented that Addie was a bit taller than Emery, as she was slightly older, and also mentioned that Addie was very well proportioned. An interesting observation about a child, and I wondered if she was a pediatrician. She noted that Emery’s legs seemed short, but no worries, she said they all even out. All I could think of was, really, do they?

After our brief conversation and a small moment of silence, the woman said, "Yes, I think she is 18 months old." She probably had time to think about this and run the calculations in her head. “But I can’t remember. I’m 93. I’m her great-grandmother,” she replied without a shred of embarrassment. I can only hope that she could not see the surprise on my face—a good surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. Awed and amazed, I didn’t quite know what to say to this woman, decades my senior and old enough to be my mother. 

My mom passed away at the age of 93. She was a woman who dressed in a smart outfit every day and put on jewelry and makeup whether she was going anywhere or not. In her last years, she was using a cane for stability, but had all her faculties. Mom had numerous great-grandchildren and probably would not know how old any of them were, either. She, too, would have mentioned her age as a badge of honor. 

But (and there is a but here) she would not have been babysitting any of her great-grandchildren, walking them down the street, and lifting them in a stroller. My mother was incredible in so many ways. So, I was amazed by this 93-year-old great-grandma; her strength, agility, and sense of style were impressive. 

I could not stop thinking about this woman. When we turned the corner, my husband and I talked about the trust her granddaughter must have in her grandmother to babysit her daughter. His assessment was different from mine; he assumed she was not wandering too far from home and that she probably had a cell phone. As I watched her pick up Emery and buckle her back in the stroller, I knew she was quite capable. 

At every opportunity, I told anyone and everyone about her —this amazing, great-grandmother. Some asked if she had an accent, assuming maybe French; we all know French women look good until the bitter end. She did not have an accent; she was pleasant, well-spoken, and not at all ashamed that she did not remember Emery’s age. Bravo! 

I want to grow up and be a great-grandma just like her —strong, confident, alert, fashionable, and friendly. That’s not too much to ask, right?

Bit by bit, that’s all she wrote…