My Timely Grandma

 My mom told me the other day that my Grandma Enid* read my latest book twice—once to herself and then again, out loud, to my Grandpa. And then she called my mom and told her she was sending her 100 dollars. She was pre-ordering all of my future books.

If that isn't the sweetest thing you've ever heard, you get your money back. (Luckily, you never gave me any money in the first place, so.)

When I was in grade seven (or eight or nine) this same Grandma mailed me a clipping from her town's newspaper—it was one of those student spotlight things where they interviewed local kids and put their picture in the paper with their answers. The kid in the interview that week was a girl named Jessie, someone I'd met at camp one year and become best friends with, though my grandma couldn't possibly have known that. 

The last question in the interview was, "Who is someone you want to be like?" and Jessie had answered "Suzy" and my grandma had circled this question and answer in red pen and drawn exclamation marks around it. Accompanying the clipping was a little sticky note that said something about how Grandma "just knew" I was the Suzy this Jessie girl wanted to be like. Like I was the only Suzy in the world, or at least, the only noteworthy, role-model-y Suzy in the world. At the time, I remember feeling particularly not noteworthy or role-model-y (I was in junior high, after all, and good self-esteem was allotted to only one or two people per grade in junior high), and that note was pretty timely. 

As timely as pre-ordering all of my future books while I'm struggling very hard to even write said future books and wondering every day if there will ever be future books. How does Grandma Enid do that? The timely thing? 

I'm digressing and digressing (for that is what I do best) but all this to say: There is one of two morals to this story (or maybe both):

1. Going out of your way to say something extra kind or encouraging is a good idea, because it might be more timely than you can imagine and/or:

2. I should call Grandma Enid this week and tell her I love her. 

*This is also the Grandma who once sent me the obituary—just the obituary, nothing else, not even a sticky note—of famous piano player Anthony Burger when he passed away of a heart attack on a cruise ship, because she knew I had been to one of his concerts and quite liked it.