The framed black-and-white photograph I keep on my nightstand captured us the way we were when I was 4 and she was 54.
The picture shows us together on the living room couch, which had been turned into a bed for one of her frequent visits. When I close my eyes, I can still remember that makeshift bed with my whole self — I can still smell the fresh scent of crisp sheets and hear the whispered conversations we had there. I am staring bug-eyed into the camera. Showing off, as usual. She, on the other hand, ignores the photographer and smiles at me.
That's how it was with us then.
For years I picked up that picture before I went to sleep. Studied the amused expression on her face. Told my grandmother I was sorry.
I adored my grandmother when I was 4 because she listened to me. Her responses were real. Not the fake ones other adults used when pretending interest while secretly thinking of something else. As I grew older, however, her intense interest in everything I did began to feel intrusive — just like her infamous morning phone calls.
My grandmother, who had the physical stamina of a Borax mule team, never slept in. She was always up at 4 a.m. Cleaning house. Writing in her journal. Painting a mountain landscape. By the time 5:30 rolled around, she was done with her work and in the mood to socialize, so she'd give me a "little jingle."
In case you have never been awakened from a deep sleep by the unexpected 5:30 a.m. phone call, let me assure you that your body responds in much the same way it does when you leap out of airplanes. Your heart races while your stomach shoots through your mouth. You paw around for the phone, knocking over lamps and piles of paperbacks.
"HELLO!" you shout into the receiver, disoriented and terrified.
"Oh, good," your caller says, "you're awake, too."
Or at least that's what your caller always said if she was my grandmother. Then, she would launch. "Cantaloupes are on special at Albertson's. Let me clean out your vegetable bin full of rotting produce. Your grandfather and I are planning on driving up to Salt Lake City today to clean it out for you, so there will be room for cantaloupes on special at Albertson's."
Then she would abruptly hang up without waiting for my reply.
When it came to manhandling my house, my grandmother had few peers. She made it sparkle and shine. Instead of being grateful for the help, however, I often felt peeved, especially when she made one of her rare housekeeping mistakes — like the time she ruined my 2-year-old's leather lederhosen from Austria by throwing them in the washing machine.
I was livid with her. If only she would ask first, I used to say.
She never did, though. Which is why I was furious the day my husband and I crawled into the U-Haul and moved to New York. Once again, my grandmother had done too much, given what no one had asked for in the first place. I threw smoldering glances at the rear-view mirror.
Not realizing, of course, it was the last time I would see her.
Which is why I used to look at her picture with mingled shock and guilt and sadness.
I'm sorry, Grandmother. I didn't thank you enough while you were alive.
Time passed. That's what Time does. One night I looked at her picture and just said thank you.
She didn't answer. Excuse me. I'm not THAT crazy.
But if she had, I hope this is what she would have said:
It doesn't hurt to ask. Remember that with your own family. But I knew you were grateful more than you said, so forget about it now, sweetheart, and go to sleep. You never know who might be calling in the morning.
E-mail: acannon@desnews.com