To my grandmother, who played basketball in a skirt, had a weakness for french fries, and found beauty in all things. (Even blizzards.) Who was perpetually knitting two baby outfits — one pink and one blue — for the newborns of those dear to her as well as people she hardly knew. Who happily shared a hairstylist with her Airedale Terriers, (they had the same type of hair, she would remind you), and who convinced me for years that she was just 10 years-old. Who baked a lifetime’s worth of indescribably perfect desserts (though occasionally forgetting to remove the toothpicks from her coconut custard layer cake), and who loved to climb trees with her grandchildren. Who handled unkindness with a simple “Isn’t that nice for you!” and had a decades-long running bet on professional football games with one of her sons. Who adored a good, firm hug (and was suspicious of weak ones), and who waited patiently for an entire year before her future husband summoned the courage to ask her out on a second date. She was a beloved wife, mother and grandmother, and above all, a true original.
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