Kiss Me in the Dining Room

My mom and I spent an enjoyable hour and a bit this afternoon visiting with my Honey Grandma, my maternal grandmother. I don't see her as often as she'd like, nor as often as I should, but when we do see each other it's a lovely, heart-warming time, and I always leave with another memory to file away and cherish for the time when she's no longer a part of my life.

Our conversation today hit on all the usual topics. Family, friends, the local gossip from the retirement community where she lives, and the various aches and pains making the rounds of her octogenarian friends. We took a couple of conversational side trips, as well. For instance, she was a bit appalled that they'd served sauerkraut with the pork roast for dinner. Apparently sauerkraut is too much a "working man's dish" to be worthy of the special honor of being included in Sunday Dinner.

Honey Grandma is truly one of the most grace-giving and loving women I've ever met. She would no sooner stir up trouble than she would kick a puppy. But the sauerkraut thing really sent her spinning for a few moments. As that particular conversation came to a close, she'd pretty much decided that the cook just didn't know any better, the poor dear. It helped that the sauerkraut had actually tasted very good. She'd adjust, she declared. It's a different world now, after all.

Talking with Honey Grandma is always a pleasure. She's a lovely soul with grace to spare, and an abundance of humility. Spending time with her, hearing her stories, is like opening a wonderful treasure chest of memories and adventures. It never matters that the stories are the same ones we've heard over and over again. They never get old. Her enjoyment in the storytelling is so obvious that it's an honor to sit at her feet and be her audience.

As our visit was drawing to an end, the floor attendant came to the door to let Honey Grandma know that her supper was being served in the dining room. She excused herself to use the restroom, and Mom and I got our coats together and prepared to walk Grandma to the dining room on our way out.

As we were making our way to the front door of her apartment, Honey Grandma, leaning on her walker, turned to look at us over her shoulder. She said, "Don't kiss me goodbye yet. Wait until we get to the dining room. Kiss me goodbye in the dining room." Mom and I looked at each other, and then at Honey Grandma, but she didn't say anything else on the subject.

When we got to the dining area she parked her walker and Mom and I escorted her to her assigned chair at her assigned table with her assigned dining companions. When she was settled she looked up and said, "Well, thank you for a lovely visit, Karen and Barbara Ann. " Then she whispered under her breath, "Now." Trying to keep the smile off my face, I dutifully leaned down and kissed her beautiful, soft cheek. With complete sincerity I said (loudly enough to be heard by her companions, of course) "I love you, Honey Grandma." The delight on her face was all the evidence I needed that I couldn't have given her a better gift. Then my Mom repeated the ritual of the goodbye kiss and promised to see her again in a few days.

As Mom and I were walking toward the elevator, we both heard Honey Grandma telling her dining companions, "That was my daughter and granddaughter, Barbara Ann and Karen. When Karen was a little girl..." There was such pride in her voice. Such love.

Such a little thing to ask. "Kiss me in the dining room." Let these people know that I'm still loved. Let them see that I have a special place in your lives. Let them understand that I haven't been forgotten.

Do you have someone who would appreciate being "kissed in the dining room?" Don't wait. Please, don't wait.

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(Honey Grandma is so named because my two brothers and I were her "Big Honey," "Medium Honey" [me], and "Little Honey." In an effort to keep the grandma's straight, she became Honey Grandma, while my paternal grandmother was Sugar Grandma, so named because she had a dog named Sugar.)