Granny - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I'm sure Granny always knew more than she let on, but unlike mother she never said "I told you so," or tried to belittle the intensity of my feelings. Being that one step removed I guess she could see me more clearly as a person rather than a problem creating dependant. She always understood the significance of things, why hurtful comments hurt and why slights from other teens could wound so much. She was that listening ear, the one who would wrap me in her love just with her soft face and kind words. She was my number one supporter, my angel and my hero. If I grow to be half as good as her I will be proud. Everyone needs a granny like mine, a never depleting repository of love and good feeling combined with a lifetime of experience.
This face that is battered by weather and wrinkled beyond recognition is my own. In my mind's eye it is youthful, the face my mother kissed so many decades ago. The mirror tells me otherwise and part of me wants to erase all those lines, wind back to clock and begin again. But there is another part that loves every crease, they are part of who I have become - no longer a girl but a mother and a grandmother. It is the face of someone who has lived, suffered, loved and grieved. I cannot be anyone else and this crumpled face is part of who I am.
The wrinkles and folds of skin were now so pronounced it was hard to tell what granny must have looked like as a young woman. Apparently she was once admired, courted and coiffured. Now she just looked like a party balloon almost bereft of it's helium, sagged and deflated. Yet once she knew you were there those eyes would light up behind the drooping eyelids and she would ask for her birthday cake. Everyday! So we kept a stash of cupcakes and candles and sang to her after her eleven o'clock tea.
Granny used to work so hard to hide her wrinkles. Her bathroom would be a dazzling display of every remedy on the market, all of them in fancy small bottles, perfumed and delicate. She kept her hair dyed black and her figure trim. But in this last decade she stopped all that. Now she lets the creases deepen and magnify unimpeded. She lets her hair grey and plays bridge instead of hiking with her dog. It's like she just decided to get old, perhaps fighting it was just too hard.
The strange thing about her grandmothers was how much alike they were. Both their houses were small and dark and smelled of furniture polish and mothballs. They were both widows, they both had sad-eyed single male boarders stashed away in upstairs rooms, they both had fancy china and front rooms crowded with silver framed family photos, they both drank tea in a glass.
Gran turned the pen over and over like it was some kind of wand, like she'd never seen one before. Then her wizened features cracked into that old familiar grin and Fiona just knew a tale was about to unfold. She wrapped her arm into the crook of Gran's elbow and looked up at her with the same expression she wore when dessert was on the way. “Your Grandfather had a pen just like this,” she said, “it was the one we signed our marriage certificate with down at the old church. It had the same dusky blue, the same gold band, but it was new of course. I didn't see it after that; I suspect he kept in safe in one of his drawers. I wish I'd taken the time to go through it all myself. But after he passed, well, it was just stuff wasn't it?” Gran paused, taking in a heavy breath, before reasserting her smile. “But let's keep this one, what is it Fifi? A dollar?”
The air in Granny's tiny living room is damp with an undercurrent of mildew. She sits on the old armchair Gramps loved so much, her think and wrinkled hands resting on the balding fabric. Before her, absorbing all the heat from her one bar fire is a clothes horse just as elderly as she is. It zig zags before her, the yellowing varnish over the oak barely visible under the weight of laundry. Her eyes rest on it as if they plan to stay there until the clothes are dry and ready to be ironed. I switch on the radio and tune it to some jazz, Gramps loved jazz. Her eyes come alive and for the first time she notices my presence.
Seventy five year old hiking and fitness fanatic, goes to hot yoga wearing lycra, old movies buff, member of local theatrical group, makes her own granola, cooks with lentils a lot, grows runner beans in the summer, volunteers at the food bank, going batty, forgets grandkid's names, tells the same stories over and over, critical of modern couch potato lifestyles and youth, scatty, messy house.
Jolly disposition, volunteers at Red Cross shop, goes lawn bowling with friends, runs toddler group at church Tuesday mornings, leads singing time, was a nursery nurse, secretly finds Moms and toddlers annoying, arranges flowers for church on a Sunday, terrible gossip, generally feels superior to friends, keeps up with the 'Joneses' keeps a spotless house, enters local front yard competition, has elaborate Christmas decorations, enjoys sweets a bit too much, loves the hair salon.
Cantankerous, grouchy, incontinent, face like crumpled paper, compulsively nits hats for newborns, swears, eats tinned sardines in tomato sauce, loves crosswords, curmudgeon, listens to 'wireless', enjoys bloodthirsty novels, needs reading glasses, sleeps in until 10am, goes to bed at 6pm, despises religion, drinks back to back cups of tea, was an army cook, ran a hotel kitchen after WWII, loves her cat, drinks whiskey at bedtime.