Grandma Charlotte

When my long stringy hair had snarls, Grandma Charlotte would oh-so-gently brush it out until it was shiny. She would let us get into the boxes of odds-n-ends in her attic and go on explores down in her dark, dank basement. She would let us throw Monkey down the stairs, play hide-and-seek in her carport treehouse, and blow air from the little hand-bellows into her face. Grandma Charlotte made us granny-syrup pancakes and let us eat as many as we wanted. She let us push the pedal again and again on the old sewing machine just so we could see the needle go up and down and never got mad if we messed with the cuckoo clock, even when we weren't supposed to. She let us lay cookie sheets on the steps and pour the basket of marbles down the stairs in a thunderous clattering cascade. She let us get out the rolls for the player piano and play the same tunes over and over again as we watched in delight as the keys magically moved by themselves. She always had cookies on hand and never seemed to be in a hurry. The last time we talked on the phone, Grandma Charlotte said "Amy, I think you and I would be good roommates".  That was the best compliment I've ever received.