My Grandmother died when I was eleven. I have the fondest memories of her and today, at the age of 47, miss her as much as I did back then. She was a woman of words. She was a writer and told wonderful stories. My fondest memories of her were when we'd spend the night. Snuggled in the fold out bed with my brothers, she would tell us the most wonderful bedtime stories. And she'd change them every time to make them new and exciting.
When my own mother passed away, I ended up with most of her old pictures. I even have a 3rd grade paper written by her, which I keep tucked away from the light. This group of pictures I put together in a shadow box along with some of her old jewelry and other odds and ends. It sits in my dining room and I look at it every day, however, there are days when I sit and look deep into the box, at the detail, and I feel as close to having a visit with her as is possible. Her name was Ethel, but everyone called her "Tiny", for she was. But when my older brother was born, he called her "Niny" and that's what I've always known her as.
