A story told by my cousin Russ, one of the youngest grandchildren. It made me realize that I never, no matter the weather, saw our grandmother looking disheveled: she was always properly dressed and coiffed just so. Always ready to look the role of the Senator’s wife.
Russ was coming into town on business and had a reservation to rent a car, the cheapest economy size, of course, no need for more.
Only when he got there they were fresh out; would he mind being upgraded?
Gram was 95 or 96, and it was during her two years of widowhood after seventy-two of marriage.
Her usual routine had long been to be taken to have her hair done on Wednesdays and then to her favorite restaurant for lunch. I don’t know how many years she and Grampa had kept that routine, but my family and I once got to join them for lunch there ourselves. (Grampa, who wasn’t always entirely with it by then, ordered something unexpected and the waitress smiled behind his 95-year-old back: “I know what he really wants” and brought him his usual.)
The people hired to take care of Gram were happy to help her go off with Russ this week–assuming he was legit.
So here’s this handsome young man in a hot Mustang muscle car (I pictured it in red but I’m not sure he actually mentioned it) pulling up to the curb. The nurses asked her, making sure, Do you know who this man is?
“I don’t know,” said our formerly tall, now stooped and tiny Gram with a laugh, “but if he’s taking me to get my hair done he’s fine with me!”