Dearest Gramma,

It’s been so many years since I last weeded with you, covered myself and the entire kitchen in flour as I baked with you, or brushed your delicate gray locks as you watched your soaps. It’s been so long, but it feels like only a day has passed since you slipped away and out of my life. I loved your wry sense of humour and that you’d let me join you and your friends assembled around the kitchen table on Saturday afternoons, happily fulfilling my requests for a sip of your coffee – sometimes even whiskey!

You always kept my “saucy” behaviour in check with a quick squint of disapproval rather than harsh words or a swift spanking, even though at times I am sure you were tempted.

My fondest memory of your gentle ways came one summer afternoon when I was 3 or 4 years old. I recall very little from before the age of 10, but this day has replayed many times in my mind like watching a video recording.

You were downstairs in the basement doing laundry while I played underneath the kitchen table with my dolls. Between the sudden jolts of water rushing through the old pipes under the floor upon where I sat, my dolls used my crossed legs as makeshift bridges and the chair’s leg as an elevator to the penthouse.

I was involved so deeply in my dolls interactions with each other; it took me a moment to realize that a warm pool had formed around and underneath me. Confused at first, I scuttled out from under the table on my little hands and knees, looked back to the floor where I had been sitting and then felt my bottom. Oh my! “How could this happen?” I must have though. “I’m a big girl!”

Nervous that you would walk in and find me in that state, I launched to my feet and poked my head around the corner into the hallway, then tiptoed to the top of the basement stairs to check and see if you were still feeding clothes through the wringer washer. I could hear you moving around downstairs; your fluffy slippers scuffing along the concrete floor. As carefully as possible, I strode down the hall to the bathroom, trying my best not to make the old floorboards squeak. I slipped into the bathroom and stripped down to my bare skin. I reached for the faucet that was closest to me and turned it with all my might. Soon water was rushing out of the tap and I swiftly started tossing my clothes into the sink. First my red polyester pants, then my favourite white t-shirt with the cartoon screen-print of a little Dutch girl in wooden shoes. On my tippy-toes, I managed to reach my arm up and over the sink and push the clothes as far down as I could, and topped them off with my underwear and socks.

I stood there, still for a moment, observing the sink fill with water and even for a second still as the hot water began spilling over the edges like a rushing waterfall. Stark naked, I closed the bathroom door and I scurried out of the bathroom. I ran halfway up the stairs to the second floor, and waited.

Soon after, mixed in with the sound of gushing water, I heard your frantic voice calling my name. I sat motionless and didn’t make a peep. Then came the sound of the bathroom door creaking open and shrieking as you made your way across the bathroom floor that was now flooded with scalding hot water, all the while still calling my name. Seconds later you found me, sitting naked on the stairs - my eyes looking back at you from a crack in my fingers; my hands cupped over my face in shame. With an unexpected chortle, you slowly pulled your weight up the stairs, consolingly brushed your heavy hand across the top of my head and then took my hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up” I remember you saying in a soft voice.

After wrapping me in a towel and setting me on the bottom stair, you mopped up the sea, not saying a word and without complaint. You ran a warm bath for me and then dressed me in a fresh set of clothes, letting out a quiet snicker now and then as you shook your head and wiped the occasional tear running down my cheek. Then you paused. You bent down to my level and looked me right in the eyes and said, “What am I going to do with you?”

You took my little hand in yours, soft and plump, and led me to the top of the basement stairs. I stopped and looked down into the dimly lit cellar. Without disappointment or anger in your eyes, which I was nervous I would see, although I never had, you smiled and said, “Come. Let’s go do some laundry… gramma’s way”.

With love and admiration,
“Saucy”