After a marathon session in the APN chatroom last night (my first time in the chat, with conversations ranging from nematode eradication methods to testing the hurricane-proofness of bison) I got up this morning and went to a funeral. It was in memory of a 94-year-old woman I knew as Grammy, although she wasn't my grandmother, technically speaking.

Let's start this way: I was adopted. The day I came home (I was maybe a week old, so don't ask me about orphanages or biological parents) there was a knock at the door. Standing there was a little old lady in oversized glasses who introduced herself as our neighbor and said, "I heard you have a new child in the house, and I thought you could probably use some help!" She was an angel to my mother who, despite having wanted children for years, had been thrust into parenthood rather abruptly. We called her Grammy.

As far as I was concerned, if parents could adopt a kid, a kid could adopt a grandmother. So that's what I did. Family is not about blood or genetics, it's about love, and believe me, she loved me completely and selflessly. What obligation did she have to a little kid who lived down the street? She had a family and grandchildren of her own, yet she would come over and sit with me for hours. She babysat me, read to me, played with me. She spent so much time with me that I learned to read at pretty much the same time I learned to talk. I was a good kid growing up, but I have no idea if it was innate. I just spent a lot of my childhood partying with a septuagenarian.

She turned 90 four years ago. Her family threw a huge party, complete with champagne. Grammy was tinier, but she was still glowing. Amidst the raucous gala, my mother turned to me and said, "Can you believe Grammy's 90?"

I replied, "Can you believe she was 70 when she knocked on our door?"

"No," my mother said, "I really can't even imagine." It was a stunning realization. She had so much energy, to us she was ageless.

A few minutes later someone popped another bottle of champagne open and I got hit just below the eye with the cork. I now stand as the only person to ever get a black eye at a 90th birthday party. It's an aside, but I'm quite proud of that.

When my little sister was born, my parents got the unexpected phone call from a social worker. Actually, my dad got the unexpected call, and he called the grocery store where my mother was shopping, and she got an unexpected announcement over the loudspeaker that her husband was in labor. So Grammy came over at a moment's notice and stayed with me, a fat and mostly bald two-and-a-half year old, while my parents drove up to the hospital.

I was so excited to have a little sister, I can't even begin to explain. I remember sitting on the couch, too nervous to do anything. Every rustle sounded like my parents at the door. When they finally arrived, I did something totally out of character: I jumped over the back of the couch and ran to the door. Grammy was shocked at my behavior. Jennifer jumping over the couch? No, no. That won't do at all.

And so my first memory of my little sister in the house is Grammy making me walk back to where I had been sitting and walk back to the door - and parents and new baby sister - like a proper young lady. I did it, but I wriggled the whole way. My official introduction to Michelle was delayed by a full 15 seconds, but I met her in a ladylike fashion.

Just thinking about it cracks me up.

She did for my sister what she did for me, even though my family moved across town when I was three. It didn't matter that she wasn't down the street anymore; she was always there when we needed her, quiet and kind.

My parents left town yesterday, so I went to her funeral alone. At first I thought I had missed it because there were so few cars in the parking lot. There were maybe 20 people there. I saw her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren sitting there, but it hit me that at 94, most of the people she spent her life with were gone.

There was a photograph of her as a young woman, and I had never realized how gorgeous she was. She was leaning back in an oversized chair, wearing a large hat that tied elegantly at her chin, a stylish dress, and high-heeled booties. She was a truly glamorous woman. She had a huge smile on her face, too, like she was happy in a way she knew no one could begin to understand. I may have known nothing of the first seven decades of her life, but I knew that glow.

After the service I went up to her granddaughter, who was once my babysitter but now has a daughter of her own. We hugged, but weren't really capable of talking to each other. She ran and grabbed me a small photo album and said, "She kept this with her. I thought your family would like to have it."

It was a small, unassuming album. The cover said simply, Grandmother's Treasured Photos. That alone brought tears to my eyes. I opened it up, expecting to find photographs of Grammy and me, or her with my little sister and me. Photos my mom had given her over the years. But Grammy is in only a couple photos. She must have taken the majority of the photos herself. Most of them are of me as a baby; she thought to bring her camera over when she stayed with me. There were a few family shots, one of me with cake all over my face, and even a shot of our little terrier mutt sleeping on a doll on my bed. Simple, sweet, candid photographs, and she compiled them and kept them close. Her countless hours of work were satisfied with the reward of a dozen or so photographs.

I am so fortunate to have known such a wonderful person, a person who gave with no intent of receiving anything in return. I'm glad I knew someone who was truly good to the core. The time she gave me when I was 3 has made me a better person at 23.

I'm sad that she's gone, though she lived her life well. I don't know, maybe I thought she'd live forever, and one day she'd sit and read to my children like she read to me.

But mostly I'm grateful to have known her at all, grateful to her for knocking on her neighbors' door to help a frazzled new mother. I hope I have the opportunity to do the same for someone else one day.

Thank you, Grammy.



Grammy's photo album.


She would read to me for hours and hours.


The best part is, I totally have my hand in the cake. Busted!


Sooner was my first best friend.


I was so excited to have a little sister, even if she did sort of look like an alien.