Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online Page B

Taylor was the same that Mam-maw Gladys had for my children. At that moment, I felt so close to her. And through my tears, I understood why she had sacrificed and cared so much for her family. I realized her love for us was so deep, so wide, so unconditional—a love I was only beginning to learn to give.
    â€œShe looks like you, Grandma!” Taylor’s voice jolted me back to the present. He touched the gold-framed photo tenderly. My eyes turned to his, and a soft smile came to my lips and heart, for then I knew my mother’s love and peace.
    Libby C. Carpenter

My Official Storybook Grandma
    I t is sweet to feel by what fine spun threads our affections are drawn together.
    Lawrence Sterne
    I spent most of my young life never having what I thought was a typical, storybook grandma. My dad’s mother didn’t live close enough, and my mom’s mother died before I was born.
    At the age of sixteen I lived in Alaska, where I met my future husband, who joined our mission team there. From the beginning, Mike talked about his grandma, who lived next door. She allowed him, his three brothers and sister to raid the refrigerator. She defended them ruthlessly. The more he shared about her, the more jealous I became.
    After a year of long-distance romance, Mike invited me to his home in New York for Thanksgiving. I was so excited—until I found out I was going to be staying with the famous Grandma Reba. It was common knowledge that she had not liked most of Mike’s girlfriends. I promised myself that I would not talk too much (impossible), swore I would not laugh too loud (unfeasible), but most of all I hoped she would love me.
    I arrived and met his family, and then Mike and I walked across the street. I was more nervous about meeting Grandma Reba than anyone else. As soon as we entered, I felt the atmosphere change. Family pictures filled shelves. Homemade crocheted afghans dotted the living room furniture. Next to her chair sat a basket filled with her current afghan project and crochet hooks. A tiny lady, standing around five feet tall with curly gray hair and incredibly thick eyeglasses, came from the kitchen to greet us. She hugged Mike and I could feel her eyes moving over me. All I could think was, Please like me. She welcomed me warmly, and I began blabbing. She listened and smiled.
    When Grandma Reba was able to interject a word or two, she told me that she would show me my room. Mike left, and she escorted me down the hall and opened a door. Inside was a bed draped in one of her homemade afhgans. She apologized for the room being so small, then asked me what I would like for breakfast. Desperate to please, I told her, “Anything is fine.” Of course, true to form, I had to elaborate. “Eggs, bacon, sausage, cereal, bagel, orange juice, coffee, anything, really.”
    She smiled at my nervous chatter and said, “Okay.”
    We watched one of her favorite shows (I think it was Wheel of Fortune ), then she went to bed. I already loved her but was certain she hated me because I had not shut up since she met me.
    The next morning I was greeted by delicious breakfast smells. As I walked into the kitchen, I saw the table loaded with all the breakfast foods I had named. She stood at the skillet frying bacon.
    â€œOh, is everyone coming over for breakfast?” I asked.
    She smiled and said, “No, honey. It’s all for you.”
    For the first time since meeting her I was speechless. After falling into my chair in shock, I glanced up.
    â€œAren’t you hungry?” she asked.
    I told her I would never be able to eat all of this and that I’d be too fat for Mike to date and what a sweetheart she was and how I couldn’t believe she had cooked all this just for me. Obviously, I had found my tongue. She laughed and asked me what I wanted tomorrow. I told her cereal, coffee and orange juice was all.
    After our visit, I knew I had experienced a storybook grandma. I was