One
reader of my Senior Sampler columns took the challenge
to write a short story about her grandmother. This is what that person who
wishes to remain anonymous sent to me via email: I had some enjoyable
experiences with my father's mother (Mimi). Mimi would invite me to spend
the weekends with her when I was a child. She would take me out to lunch
and a movie. She lived in downtown L.A. I lived about 30 minutes
away. In the 1950's, it was very unusual to have lunch anywhere, but
home. You can imagine what a thrill it was to visit with Mimi. I
really loved her. (This is called the rough draft and it’s important to just
get something down to begin your history. Later you can come back and edit.) I
wrote back to this reader:
I need you to do some editing
to make this experience more exciting for the reader. Add details, emotions, etc.
Here’s her revised
version: Mimi was a charismatic grandmother. She had her ups
and downs, but when she talked everyone listened. She always argued with
my great aunt Podie especially at our house on Thanksgiving. Then they’d forgot
their issues and we continued our dinner. It was always a lot of fun. Mimi
was beautiful and dressed stylishly, although she had little money. When
we were small children, she bought us beautiful clothes that my parents could
not have afforded.
My last memories of her were when Mimi lived in a
rest home because of dementia. She was happy and was always pleasant because
she had forgotten all her gripes in life. When I went to visit her, she
showed me pictures of her grandchildren. Of course, they were some other
person's grandchildren. She did not remember me, only my Dad. She whispered
to me that the people in the care center were quite pathetic;
she couldn't figure out why she was there. She felt like she
was the only sane person. I loved her because of who she was.