My Grandma Stott loved blue. Her bedspread, the house dresses she wore, little touches here and there around the old ranch house. My grandma of the snowy white hair. Of 50+ tricot baby blankets, hand-quilted in tiny, precise stitches creating a generation of grandchildren addicted to sleeping in silky softness (I still sleep with mine!) Of sugary cereals stashed away for a grandchild's visit, the kind our mothers never let us eat.
My grandma, sitting on the concrete front steps, shelling fresh garden peas and I'm certain, knowing exactly how many peas I sneaked into my mouth instead of the bowl. Of playing library in her basement with all the old Reader's Digest books. My grandma, worthy of admiration and respect, a hard-working wife to a Montana rancher with 12 children who loved and adored her.
Almost seven years has passed since she left this earthly life, but I can still smell and taste the hot bread loaves, fresh from her oven. I can still hear the marbles as they roll back and forth on the homemade marble track, a favorite toy in her basement. I can still see small heads making a bump under her current quilt, tacked up on the old wooden frames.
My Grandma loved blue.