I would always watch her while she got ready for bed. I would sit next to her and watch her pull out her rollers and head wrap, and comb and I would watch her put her hair up. She started by parting her hair in a section, brushed it, and began to roll up that section of hair. My grandmother was neat and organized, and she had a system for everything that she did. This included rolling her hair up at night. She had the softest hair, and it stayed this blondish greyish color. She was gentle when she rolled up her hair. When she finished putting in all her rollers, she would tie her silk hair scarf carefully around her head. My grandmother had a way of doing everything with grace. No matter what she did, she made it look graceful. Cooking, cleaning, just about anything she did she did it elegantly and with care. As a child, I wanted to be like her when I grew up. Elegant, graceful, independent just like my grandmother.
I would be watching her while she did this, talking to her about anything and everything a five-year-old could talk about with her grandmother. I would ask a lot of questions, and she would always have an answer for them. We would talk until it was time for me to go to bed. I would tell her goodnight, and we exchanged I love you, and I was off to bed. Even Though I would have loved to stay with my grandmother the entire night.
Sometimes I would come into her room, and she would be reading or painting her nails. I would walk over to her and ask her if she could paint my nails. She would say of course and start to paint my tiny fingernails. My grandmother only had one polish color, and it was this pale orangish color. After painting them, she showed me how to dry my nails by blowing on them. Another thing we shared.
My grandmother used to write beautiful poetry. I specifically remember the one she wrote about a girl and her hat. When I would come over to her house, I would ask her if she could read to me the “story about the girl and her hat.” She would say yeas read me the poem. I would tell her that it was my favorite and she was always happy to hear that. Writing is one more thing we share. It’s too bad that I can’t read to her one of my stories.