She could sew a set of matching pajamas for her grandchildren (with cellophane-wrapped quarters in the neatly turned besom pockets), roll out crisp sugar cookies so thin you could read through them, make homemade raspberry-apple jelly sealed under paraffin in individually labeled jars, braid a gorgeous—and perfectly symmetrical—rug out of scrap fabric, grow a garden of snapdragons in a spectrum of fascinating colors, and patiently, politely lose endless games of Clue with her matching-pajama-clad grandchildren—usually all in the same day. We had four wonderful, loving grandparents, but our grandfathers died when my sister and I were very young, Grandma Marie lived in Colorado, and Grandma Ester lived only two hours away—and ended up living with us as she started declining late in her long, remarkable life—so I knew her the best. We’ve finally outgrown our besom-pocket pajamas and spent our last cellophane-wrapped quarters, but we now have a fourth generation of her descendants reverently making paper-thin sugar cookies on her well-loved baking sheets.
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