The day I was born my Paternal Grandmother began the campaign to have me call her anything but Granny (or Grandma or even Grandmother for that matter). Being the tall, blonde bombshell she was (and is) it was easy to assume it was all about age and beauty. Certainly this fashion diva in high heels wasn't ready to be condemned to a rocking chair and reading glasses in her early (enter censored age here).
"Maman" she said in her best imitation of a French accent. "You will call me, Maman". As a child, I remember hearing it as something along the lines of "Mee-Maw". But, it still didn't suit her. So. Says. I. And, so began a lifetime of two strong heads trying not to butt in to each other. Too often.
But, hey, I was a kid. So I won. It is only fair. I had other grandparents. I was no dummy. It at least had to
start with the same
sound as everyone else! Besides (and here is the kicker) it got (and to this daaay) gets a very "nice" reaction. :) My toddler-self decreed, I dub thee "Geema" (Say "g" like in grand. Gee-Maw"). And it stuck. With everyone. She loves me so very, very much for this. I think I might be her favorite. After all, I'm also the one who stole the peek at her license to get her real age. And, I've dug every family skeleton out of the closet. And, I buck all sense of fashion.
Of course, I'm her favorite! (It is times like this that you hope friendly sarcasm actually translates into blog-speak)
My friends were gaga over Geema. She only visited about once a year--we lived near San Francisco and she is a So. Cal kind of gal. One time, she flew with her flight instructor right over our house. And waved. How many
grandma's Geema's can you say do that?! All my life she has been a role model of persistence and courage. She is a woman who survived single motherhood in the (censored years here). She built a career with a large company as their personal travel agent and traveled all over the world. She dined regularly with CEO's (eventually marrying one--my beloved Grandpa John). She met presidents. Entertained dignitaries. And represented a life of glamor to a young girl growing up in
the armpit of suburban East Bay. I wanted to be like her. Minus having to think about clothes and fashion. And flying. I hate flying.
When I was around 7 (or 10?) my
grandmother Geema started her own business. It was a fabulous little
fashion botique. No, wait. A spectacular
adventure travel agency. No, my friends. This high-flying, glamor diva with a cherry on top,
this ageless beauty,
this world-traveler,
this Geema opened her very own...
Knit shop.
