Dorothy

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The clear images of my grandmother have faded with time. I recall sensible shoes and plaid shirtwaist dresses, sewed painstakingly on the old black Singer permanently parked in a corner of our dining room. I’m not sure she ever wore slacks for her gardening chores. I believe it was those deep pocket dresses, sewed from cool cotton in subdued gingham checks or tiny prints. A wide brimmed straw hat gave some protection, not against the sun, but against the confused blue jay who insisted on landing on her head. She had an irrational and intense dislike of birds, but this saucy and otherwise completely wild creature apparently decided she looked like a tree, and had an amusing habit of swooping down and startling the poor woman into unladylike screeches so very uncharacteristic of her.

She gave me the years that saved my life.

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