“That’s nice,” Grandma said as she rubbed my back.
“When my kids go to school, I’ll have time to write a spy novel. They’ll turn into a movie starring Mary Tyler Moore and the Man from Uncle. We’ll have to move back to the United States, to California, where we’ll live in a house with big redwoods in the backyard. Our kids will play in a huge tree house.”
And when I told Rose I was moving to England soon to study English at Oxford, my Grandmother said simply, “I’ll miss you.”
She was there to witness my all plans go agonizing awry. When Doug the preacher’s son dumped me to date Melodie Bash; Grandma made me a new dress to ease the sting.
When I failed my audition for the Bingham Junior High School talent show with my dazzling rendition of Barbara Streisand’s “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” Grandma said, “Never stop singing Tina. If it pleases you, then it is pleasing.”
And when I my short story was rejected Highlights Magazine, Grandma instructed me to go to the library and check out five new books. When I showed them to her she said, “Good. Now read them. Immerse yourself in something besides yourself.”
Unlike other adults, Grandma saw my circuitous route and disappointments for the folly it was. She neither judged nor falsely championed me. Instead, she offered support for the person and not the plan.
When I was leaving for college, I was overcome with a sudden, intense bout of separation anxiety.
“I don’t want to go Grandma,” I said, hugging her. “I’m scared and I’m so embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” she said softly in my ear, “Don’t be. Life is crooked and unpredictable and painful. You’re just finding that out.”
I looked into her eyes, surprised.
“But it’s also brilliant and beautiful and utterly surprising. I hope you’ll avoid the awful mistake of punishing or rewarding yourself for either. Worry takes all the fun out of it.”