And the Story Officially Begins

September 1, 2____


Dear Samantha (or whatever they’re calling you today),

I have no idea whether your name will be Samantha or not, because your mother keeps changing her mind about what to call you. Today, it ‘s Samantha, but yesterday, it was Ava, and just last week she was calling you Emma. In my opinion, Samantha is a great name, just as long as they don’t’ start calling you Sam. Even if you’re a perfect tomboy (now there’s a word that’s hardly used any more!) I simply don’t care for the name Sam. It’s too round and old-worldly for my taste. Too much the “I’ve had so many sons, I can’t think of any more names,” or “let’s name this one for my great uncle who owned the candy store in the Bronx.” At any rate, I’ve decided to stick with Samantha, so there you are.

So, Samantha, this is the first in a big batch of letters you’re going to get from me. They aren’t actually letters, at least not in the old fashioned sense of words being written on flowery stationary, placed in envelopes, addressed with an old-fashioned spidery handwriting, and then mailed (or sent by pony express, circa 1806). I went out to The Paper Maiche today. It’s absolutely my favorite store in all the world – I’ll take you there someday. I bought a wonderful bound notebook, which is covered with a soft green and blue pattern, that calls to mind the different colors of the sea over at Castle Beach (another place I have to take you someday.) I decided to use this lovely notebook to write my notes to you. I’ll be sort of setting them adrift on the sea of shiny white paper that lives inside these covers.

I’m not at all sure what I’ll be writing about in these letters. Probably just whatever comes to mind. You’ll notice as I tell you more about myself, that I tend to ramble a bit, and that sometimes I say things in a funny sort of way. You’ll also realize right off the bat that I’m not your conventional grandmother – yikes! I think that’s the first time I’ve ever written that word, at least in reference to myself. And that brings up another very pertinent issue, particularly since we were just talking about names. What in the world are you going to call me? I have an intense dislike of the work “grandma,” and not just because of the white hair in a bun images it conjures up. I just find it an ugly word to describe something that’s really quite special. I know, it’s a derivative of “grand-mother,” and I hope I will be that to you. I would even settle for being a “grand-ma,” although the word “ma” makes me shudder. Even the cute little substitutes for the dreaded grandma – like grammy or nana- leave me cold. My friend’s Susan’s grandchildren call her Mimi – have no idea where that came from, but it isn’t too bad. I probably shouldn’t steal that special name from her. Susan has always been the possessive type.

When I first met Susan, she was in our about to be shared dorm room setting up her sewing machine ( yes, girls back in the 60’s sometimes took their sewing machines to college, especially if you were a home ec major like Susan). She had commandeered the window side of the room, and had unfolded her portable sewing table and stood it up right in front of the window. Just as she was about to place the Singer SewMaster 500 on top of the table, I dropped my bag with a loud, intended to startle thump. “Thanks for hogging the window!” I yelped at her.

Well, she raised herself to her full 5’9”, tossed her long, obviously artificially straightened blonde hair, and retorted “You’re might tiny to be so full of yourself!”

One thing led to another, and before long she started calling me “Tiny,” or “Tiny Tara,” and then it just became “TT.” So, that’s what I think I’ll have you call me. She has always said that her first blurted impression was a perfect fit, and that I packed a lot of self assurance and confidence into my very small frame. I could certainly use a healthy dose of confidence right now.

So now that we’ve gotten our names sorted out, I must return to my confessions about my qualifications for the role of grandmother. I should apologize up front, because I’m not really the type that’s going to bake you cookies every time you come to visit, or sew fabulous costumes for Halloween. But, if you want someone to teach you a mean boogie woogie on the piano, or go for endless bike rides on the trails at Hawthorne Mountain, or take you to Blu Sushi for their awesome Volcano rolls, then that would be me –TT.

I’m actually hoping you won’t be the conventional granddaughter either. Your mother, God bless her, is conventional enough for both of us. It never ceases to amaze me that I could raise a woman who bakes her own bread, grows her own vegetables, serves on more church committees than I even knew existed, and - votes Republican! No, you can be as unconventional as you like – pierce anything you want (well, almost anything – there are some areas at which I would definitely draw the line!), dye your hair puce green, wear combat boots to the prom –who cares?
Make no mistake, dear Samantha, your mother will most definitely care. She will care about you fiercely, and hoard your independence like a mother lion guards the days prey. You will need someone to save you from that fierce love, someone who can keep her from smothering you with her blanket of concern and caring, rather than just warming you with its softness and security. Again, that would be where I come in. When the road on Anne Elizabeth’s highway to self righteousness gets too tough, you can count of me to help you navigate the detour.

Most importantly Samantha, is that you remain true to your own nature. It won’t be like Anne Elizabeth’s, and it won’t be like mine. It won’t even be like your great-grandmother Frances, whose stubbornness and rigidity were legendary in this family. Your nature will be yours alone, a fine mixture of all the good traits just now starting to simmer in your miniscule gene pool. Just learn to listen to it, and follow where it leads. That’s the only road you need to travel.

Endless love,
TT