Sweet Grandma Pat

A table of older women came to eat at Mimi's today. In fact, one was nearly a hundred, the other, perhaps in her late seventies. Mother and daughter. I remembered them from about eight or so months ago, partly because the near century old mother has the most piercing blue eyes, and partly because I reveled that a woman so old was consuming so much wine! I couldn't remember exactly what it was we talked about the time before, but I knew it was a good conversation, and I was thrilled to see them again.

The mother was a little lady whose white, thinning curls laid delicately around her face. She sat at the booth in a red, oversized pea coat. She sipped on her glass of wine, and ate her Cordon Bleu. Her eyelids sagged, and her wrinkles ran from the corner of her eyes down to her rosy cheeks. Her cherry lipstick extended far outside of the lip's boundaries, and it emphasized the broken crimson blood vessels in her face. She had a few random silver hairs that popped out of her chin, which squiggled and curled, and I wanted to tweeze them. I watched her as the alcohol absorbed into her tiny frame, and with every swallow she became more festive and light-hearted. It was truly a sight, and simple conversation would not do.

I joined the ladies when my shift ended for glass of Chardonnay and a dose of the "good days." The mother, who later insisted I call her Grandma Patricia (and even later, Pat), told me about parts of her life, and would rely on her daughter to produce certain details she couldn't recall, such as a town or person's name. She experienced life, and was not afraid to tell me anything she'd done! She looked back with no regrets! It was so much fun to sit and listen as she divulged secrets and experiences from her past. She spoke warmly about her family and her children. She saw the world, and she tasted life. I admired her spunk and her tenacity. Grandma Pat laughed, sang, cursed, and even gave me a kiss before she left. It was the perfect end to a long day at work.

I told her that I'd like to go to lunch with her and her daughter again before I moved to Arizona. I slipped her my number, and she slipped me a ten dollar bill. I don't expect I'll hear from her again, but I sure as heck will never forget her!