Becoming Grandma
On memory, perspective, and seeing my grandmothers differently at 60
I’m writing this on my 60th birthday.
I feel blessed. Rich. Reflective.
Lately I’ve been thinking about my grandmas.
And since becoming a grandma myself, my perspective on my childhood has shifted. Isn’t it interesting how each new season of life invites us to revisit the old ones, but this time from someone else’s point of view?
I think back to both of my grandmas with so much gratitude—and so many questions.
Grandma Cragg
That’s what we called her. Where I grew up, grandmas were “Grandma” and their last name.
I spent many nights at her house. We would sit on her couch. She would lean forward, and I would stand behind her rubbing lotion all over her back. Then I’d draw letters with my finger and she would guess what I wrote.
We watched black-and-white movies while I traced the alphabet across her shoulders. I’m sure we did this for hours.
At bedtime, I got to sleep beside her. It felt like winning something.
I remember Sesame Street at her house too. I would sit close to the television while eggs sizzled in a pan and coffee percolated in the background. That sound is still stitched into my memory.
As a child, those nights felt magical.
As an adult, I wonder what they felt like for her.
Her husband, my grandpa, struggled with alcoholism. He was rarely home. And when he was, it wasn’t peaceful.
Did my being there bring her comfort?
Was I a distraction?
Did she feel relief when I walked through the door?
Now, at 60, I wish I could sit across from her with coffee and ask what that season felt like from her side of the couch.
Not to change my memories—but to understand hers.
Grandma Kries
Every Sunday, my sister and I would meet Grandma Kries and Grandpa at church. Then we’d head back to their house for the same breakfast every time.
A bowl of cereal.
Half a grapefruit covered in sugar.
And coffee.
Yes, she let me drink coffee as a little girl. Also covered in sugar. 😊
After breakfast, we’d pile into the car and head to what I called “the church of the Pink Ladies.” I have no idea what it was actually called, but it was filled with nuns who wore pink habits and spent their days praying. I thought that was the strangest, most fascinating job in the world.
Then we’d visit my great aunt, drink more sugary coffee, and eat ooey gooey butter cake.
And finally, we would drive what felt like hundreds of miles—though it was probably twenty—to another city to visit more family. We’d end the day at a “fancy” truck stop for dinner, my grandpa’s favorite.
Looking back now, I see something I didn’t see then.
I see intention.
I see a woman who made sure we were connected—to faith, to family, to tradition, to rhythm.
She made space for everyone.
She showed up every Sunday.
She made time feel abundant.
And now, as a grandma myself, I see the quiet leadership in that. The steadiness. The way she carried so much without announcing it.
Becoming a grandma has softened me.
It’s made me wonder what my grandbabies will remember.
The sounds in my kitchen.
The way I laugh.
The rituals I create.
It’s made me think less about the grand gestures and more about the ordinary moments that somehow become sacred.
At 60, I don’t just remember my grandmas differently.
I understand them differently.
And that feels like a gift.
Love you,
Lors ☕💛
That made me cry!!