My grandma's electric typewriter

All the memories of my grandma, and this is the one that surfaced this week

My grandma died on Wednesday, and I’m not going to write about that here except to say that I am grateful I was able to be with her in her last days.

I remember the electric typewriter in her guest bedroom, how in the long afternoons leading up to Sunday dinners, while she was in the kitchen skimming the fat off a simmering meat sauce or making German potato dumplings and gabbing with the aunts, I would hide away and write the beginnings of stories. When I needed supplies, she would give me stacks of dot matrix paper and bottles of white out. When I needed inspiration, she would tell me about her family, and I vowed that someday I would write a book about them.

She went one day short of the two-year anniversary of my grandpa’s death. I loved her.

Writing is my safe place, my solace, so I kept working on the pond novel throughout the week, mostly on the dinner scene. I didn’t make much progress, but that’s not always the point.

Thanks to everyone who’s been there for me and my family this week. You know who you are, and I appreciate you.