Warm Fuzzy Feeling of Grandma

When I was young, my brothers and sister and I would routinely go over to our grandma and grandpa's house. They would watch us while our parents worked or ran errands. All of us remember this with fond memories. We each remembered something different about the experience.

Michael would remember going over their to watch Lost in Space and Land of the Lost on cable (which we didn't have at our own home at the time). My other siblings would remember things like, grandma letting us have the sugar cubes that she used for her coffee. Or playing with her massive amount of knick-knacks (is that how you spell it?) or jewelery (she would wear a ring on each finger). But my memory was special.

Yes, I used to help my grandma roll her cigarettes. Not manually. No, grandma had a specail cigarette roller. I still remember pulling up a chair next to grandma. She would take out the rolling machine and her big coffee container-turned-tobacco-holder. I still don't remember exactly what my job was, but I have faint memories of the taste of rolling papers (and that memory would not be from recent memories), so it might have been my job to lick the paper. Perhaps I didn't have a job, and Grandma just told me I was helping to make me happy.

When I recently revealed this memory to my family we both ended up a little surprised. They were surprised because
A: None of them remember helping her with that task
B: They never heard about it until right then
C: It was kind of a weird "Good" memory to have
And I was surprised that
A: No one else helped her
B: I never talked about it until then
C: It was, in fact, a weird memory to have and enjoy

Then it kind of made me happy. I had a memory that was so distinct from my other siblings. Maybe that is why I never shared with others. Not because I was ashamed of it but because I wanted it to be my own. Sure, it is a complete bizarre warm, fuzzy memory to have but you would have to know my grandma to know why the memory is funny and cute at the same time.

I shall always think of my grandma when I smell stale smoke; when I see gawdy knick-knacks and land ornaments; when I pass by small little frail bodies that you have to lean down to hug; and when I see my mom look at her grandchildren with loving and adoring eyes. I can only hope that Lainie and Ian love my mom as much as I loved and love my Grandma.