I wish I could tell you more about Grandma Sophie, but the truth is, I know very little in the whole scheme of things. I am a little jealous of people that have the pleasure of knowing their grandparents, especially if they know them as adults. One of my grandfathers died shortly before I was born, the other not long after. Both grandmas were alive into my teens and twenties, but Dad’s Mom lived in the far off Land of 10,000 Lakes and I only saw her a handful of times in my life. Most of my memories of “Grandma” had Sophie filling the role.

Sophie’s Version of Grandma

Grandma Sophie lived just down the street from us in a little apartment in Moab for a time when I was little. I remember being sent to spend afternoons with her, dreading the time. Instead of playing or chatting, I was made to “embroider” pillowcases with tubes of paint. I know that sounds weird, and I still think it was, but she actually made some quite pretty designs that way. For me though, it was a time that I was forced to do something not of my choosing, and to be criticized for any and all perceived mistakes. 

The other time that stands out in my mind is the time we attended a church potluck dinner. Mom was up and about talking with most everyone while grandma stayed at the table to supervise my brother E— and me. It seemed all the other kids were up and about, talking and playing. E— and I were forbidden from joining them, we had to stay with grandma at the table. To make it worse, we were constantly (at least it seemed that way) chastised for putting our elbows on the table, slouching or anything else she perceived out of order.  In my young mind, she was mean and unloving. Not at all  what I had been led to believe grandmas should be.

To Top it All Off

For the most part, after grandma Sophie moved back to Minnesota, I gave little thought to her. I looked forward to my birthday cards from our other grandma but don’t recall receiving from, or caring about grandma Sophie. I certainly didn’t consider my mom’s feelings about her mother, especially since she never talked about her side of the family. Then one day I remember sitting in the kitchen listening to Mom’s side of a phone conversation with Sophie. Within a few minutes of the call, I learned the essence of the conversation.

Sophie: My doctor says that my arthritis would be better if I moved to a drier climate.

Mom: Oh?! Well, you could certainly move back to Moab, we’d love to have you here.

Sophie: Oh no, I’d never move there. I don’t have any family there . . . 

Mom: !?!?!? . . . 

Mom ended the call quickly and sat sobbing for I don’t know how long and that pretty well cemented my animosity toward grandma Sophie. 

Finally, The Doilies

Now we jump ahead to years later, with me in the role of “Mom.” I came to realize that I would never be a perfect mom, but I could certainly do my best. It was around that time I realized that despite the tensions that had grown between me and my mom, she had done her best as well. She had been taught to be abusive to the point of moving away from home at the age of 13. She was not encouraged by her parents but figured out how to raise four children that knew she loved them and give them the encouragement and support she deserved as a child.

Forward again to 2020. After Mom passed away in May we made the choice to sell the family home of nearly 60 years. Going through all items of a lifetime of frugality is Herculean, to say the least and my sister, S— was an amazing organizer through it all. Toward the end though, some things just got put in boxes to be dealt with later. 

One of those boxes had a bag full of doilies mostly made by Grandma. As I started to go through the collection, I wondered at the time, effort and skill that went into them. I have done some fine crocheting and tatting, so I know how cramped and tired my eyes and hands get, I can just imagine the pain and frustration grandma must have experienced creating all these doilies.

It then occurred to me that she’d been making things that I cherished since before I was born. There were the granny square afghans on the couch in my parent’s den that were perfect for napping. She had crocheted countless ringlet hair ties that gave my five and six year-old self the impression that I could actually have curls in my hair. She learned that I loved the color yellow and made a complete doll outfit, including the hat, for a doll whose eyes would close when she lay down. 

Crafty Love

Could it be that making all these items was her way of showing love? Perhaps she couldn’t even acknowledge the love to herself, hence her outwardly nastiness. I have a hard time imagining putting all that work into gifts for someone you truly don’t care for. I also think of the fact that she taught my mom to sew, which she was able to use to earn wages most all her life. I’d be willing to bet she taught all three of her girls the skills they would need to make the most of their situations. Not exactly a gift, per se, but those girls went on to raise children that went to college and have led quite successful lives, including raising happy, healthy children of their own. 

So, was I correct in thinking my grandma Sophie was a horrible person and rotten grandma? Or was she the person her consequences made her? Did she actually love her children and grandchildren deep down? Or was she mean by nature and just used crafting as an outlet for energy. I’ll never know the true answer to my questions, but I tend to think people are born “good” and circumstances and teaching makes them less so. That said, I’ll stick with the thought that maybe she did love me and if nothing else, I’ll strive to be the best damn grandma I can.