My grandmother’s name was Ellen. I loved her very much. She was a hard-working lady with a soft spot for her grand children. As a child I would stay long periods at her house in summer. She cooked special meals for me, let me get away with way more than my parents would, and always made a nervous laugh under her breath when I was around her.
When I spent time at her house, she woke hours before me. Waking up, I’d make my way down the stairs, to the scent of whatever she had been cooking. Most mornings I would find her at the kitchen table drinking coffee, and listening to “boots and salutes” or the call in garage sale, on CJWW 750. Some mornings I might find the kitchen empty. I would pull a chair over to the counter, climb up and peer out the kitchen window. Looking deep into the backyard I could watch her pick raspberries in her garden, until she came in and cooked me breakfast. When I was young, she would make me toast with brown sugar, cinnamon and peanut butter. That was the usual. Every morning she would ask what I wanted. I would reply “the usual”. I liked saying that and she knew it. She played that game with me every morning.