I got a call this morning that my dad's mom passed away about 8 a.m. at age 96. It was fairly quick and somewhat sudden, though she was recovering from some unexpected surgery. I was incredibly lucky to have had her in my life for 41 years. Grandma taught me to crochet as a child, a lifelong gift, and had recently helped me learn to knit. When I visited her in the hospital last Saturday I showed her the little yellow baby sweater I just finished. She got a huge smile on her face when I handed it to her. She looked it over carefully, felt over the ribbing and the stitches, and turned to me and said, "That's just fine, dear. That's just fine."
From Grandma, that meant it was perfect. I could not possibly have asked for more.
She taught me to cook all kinds of fancy Sephardic foods and put up with my frequent phonecalls for cooking advice. We discussed politics together, read the same books and talked about them. We were always lending each other books. She was a sharp, intelligent and well-read women with a great sense of humor.
This picture is from two months ago, as she was about to take my niece, her first great grandchild, in her arms: