Grandma Meg

When I was young, I never wanted to leave Grandma Meg’s house. In order to coax me from her side and into the car, my parents would have to appease me with a plush refrigerator magnet that happened to greatly resemble Grandma. I would clutch the magnet, christened Little Grandma Meg, so I would miss her little less on the ride home.

It’s no mystery why I would never want to leave her. Some of my best memories come from simple summer evenings at her house. One of the few times I’ve laughed until I cried was on her back porch playing Yahtzee. I accidentally picked up the dice and put them in my cup of Pepsi instead of the game’s red cup. We laughed so hard at my silly mistake. That was one of the reasons Grandma was so great: she could have fun doing the smallest, simplest things.

I loved going shopping with her. There was never a person more at home perusing the racks at a department store. She could spot a deal as soon as she walked in the door and had eye for the most perfect purchases. Soon after my family moved back closer to home after living for awhile in Texas, Grandma wanted to take me shopping for back to school clothes. I was nervous at first because the distance had made me forget the intricacies of her character. Without the buffer of my parents, I was afraid it would be awkward. That was a foolish fear.

She flitted from rack to rack, holding up a shirt or a dress against my body and seeing immediately whether it was up to par. She chose clothes I would never pick out myself, but they would always end up being my favorite outfits. Soon, my friends at school were following up any compliments on my outfit with “was that a Grandma Meg purchase?” She was the trendiest Grandma anywhere. Soon I remembered the person I was so attached to, hilarious, happy, and loving. Her love and compassion never left any room for awkwardness.

When time for my senior prom rolled around, I knew exactly who to call. We all tried to keep up with her as she searched through hundreds of dresses. Annoyed at my hesitance to try anything on, she heaped my arms with beautiful gowns. Eventually, she draped an amazing black dress over my arms at an expensive specialty store. Of course, I loved it, and so did she. But the price tag was shocking. Still, Grandma had found the dress we were meant to buy, and we were not leaving the store without it. “What about Dad?” I asked, concerned for his cardiac health. “Don’t worry about him,” she said, waving her hand dismissively, “I will take care of him.” And so I got my perfect dress, and I felt wonderful in it all night.

Grandma always knew what would make you happy, and she wouldn’t rest until she did everything she could for it to happen. Compassionate to a fault, she was always worried about everyone else’s welfare before her own. She loved giving. Many times, if we visited her just before the holidays, she wanted to give us our gifts right then. She wanted to work so hard to make us happy, but the truth is she didn’t need to. All she had to do was be there, and maybe give us one of those warm, loving Grandma Meg hugs.

She was always up for anything. How many grandmothers would plunge down a waterslide at maximum speed, her purple swim suiting earning her the nickname “Meg the Missile”? How many would take on the streets of New York City, posing in character with a Dracula double in the wax museum and showering street hustlers with money because she was just that nice? ow mHowHow She would go anywhere, do anything, and always have a good time doing it. She loving traveling and having good stories to tell and spending time with her family.

Now I need my little Grandma Meg more than ever. I don’t know whatever happened to that little magnet, but I have the equivalent with me everywhere I go. I have the memories of her love and laughter preserved forever in my mind and heart. The taste of Pepsi and Mentos, the crinkle of shopping bags, the clean flowery smell of her house, and the sound of shuffling cards about to be dealt in a round of rummy will always remind me of the many cherished memories I’ve made with her. I could fill up a hundred files writing out all the good memories she helped make and those memories will help me and all my family go on living in a world without Grandma Meg. It devastates me that she won’t be there for my high school graduation, but I know she was so proud of me, and I will think of her as I walk across the stage. She always liked to point out the characteristics in me that seemed to come from her: picky and peculiar eating habits, affinity for shiny jewelry, being tight with money. I’m glad to know that I can carry on little bit of her because I know the world was a better place for having my Grandma Meg in it.

Of Blogs and Blogging

Bloggers, on average, are irritating people. They're usually self-absorbed, thinking people care about what they ate for breakfast and saw on the drive to work. They're usually egotistical, thinking their previously under-appreciated writing talents will one day be discovered. They're usually annoying, whiny people who the internet afforded a place to whine annoyingly.

But not all of them. Some just like having an outlet to write in. If you stop writing with an audience in mind, then the writing becomes more worthy of an audience. People can tell when things are thinly veiled attempts at catering to readers who really don't exist. Some people are just passionate about a subject and need a place to pour all the creative energy their hobby or lifestyle creates into something outside of themselves. Others blog to chronicle their own lives; there's something interesting about watching yourself progress, month by month, along the sidebar of the blog.

But the former types of bloggers give bloggers everywhere a bad name. It's easy to dump on the idea, and it's easy for the concept to become another technology-created narcissistic fad. The only real way to save it from being such a thing is to use it in a more meaningful way.

Sure, I could type all these thoughts onto a word document in my computer, but I know I wouldn't write with such regularity (arguably regular, anyhow) without such a specific place to go to write. That date on the blogger dashboard shows me how long it's been since I've sat and thought about where my mind is at (which seems kind of odd... thinking about where your mind is at, but that's truly what it feels like). It's easy to get caught up in the humdrum of life and forget to think about anything at all. I don't think there's anything narcissistic about evaluating life from time to time, and I know I can't do that effectively without writing.

Writing is so, so precious, and blogs are one of the few places on the internet that really allow the good, productive sort of writing. It takes no thought to write a 140-character "witticism," but it takes thought to plan out an entire blog entry. If only people would write thoughtful blogs, and people would give thoughtful blogs a chance, they could be something meaningful. But the internet is not the place for anything meaningful much, and it's overly idealistic to think that could happen.

I follow quite a few blogs and a few them are truly good. The people writing them are the sort of people I might like to know in real life, but since I can't, I can reap the benefits of their thoughts and productivity and insight through blogger. I don't see how that can be anything but good.

When I go off to college, I will probably retire this blog. It only seems fitting to let it sit as the person writing it will invariably be different. I don't know if I will start another one. Part of me thinks I will definitely need to, more than I do now, and part of me thinks it will just seem like something time-consuming and in the way. I guess I will know when I get there. For now, I will keep writing and reading because I can't help but feel there is just something inherently important in it all.