Remembering My Grandmother on Her 100th Birthday
What she taught me about style, independence, and making the little things special.
Last Friday would have been my grandmother (Grammy) Ruth’s 100th birthday. She passed away 10 years ago, just after turning 90. Aside from my parents, when I think about my life and how it’s turned out so far, she is probably my biggest inspiration.
Grammy was one of the most glamorous people I’ll ever know. In my mind, she is immortalized in a camel cashmere sweater with matching wool slacks—probably from Ann Taylor—beautifully accessorized with her signature gold collar necklace.
Her basement felt like Santa’s workshop. She was a talented knitter and supremely crafty. There were always multiple projects going: chocolate-covered pretzels for her church fair, knit caps for children shaped like the tops of strawberries, painted rocking chairs. She made dresses for my sisters, cousins, and me with knit bodices and cotton poplin skirts. She was always moving, volunteering, doing aerobics in her living room into her late 80s. When I think of her, I think of Mackenzie-Childs, freshly squeezed orange juice (she was so particular about this!), bumble bees (she collected bee brooches), and the goblet of wine she had every evening. That single glass was probably closer to 2.5 glasses, but she insisted it was the doctor’s orders. I think about how she went to Greece all by herself in her 60s, her gigantic sunglasses, how her home smelled like cashmere, what an aggressively bad driver she was. (The woman knew how to accelerate into a turn!)
She’s been on my all week, and honestly I’ve been sitting on this post for even longer, because every time I write it I start to feel sad. It’s been 10 years since she passed, but I still miss her so much. I wanted to share a few of the things she taught me.
Make the little moments special.
Grammy could make even the ordinary feel like an occasion. When I was young, as the eldest granddaughter, I got to have sleepovers at her house. Breakfast would be angel food cake served in a fancy glass dish with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. Years later, when I crashed at my aunt’s house in New Jersey for six weeks to save money before moving into the city, my grandmother lived in an apartment attached to their house. I remember one day she said, “We should have lunch!” When I came over, she had her best china out. There was sparkling water in wine glasses. Soup for the first course, and then her legendary chicken salad. I had expected something casual and was so touched by the care she put into it—and her joie de vivre!
She always sent thank-you notes. She mailed regular care packages to my sisters and me. Christmas was a whole extravaganza. Boxes of (often handmade) gifts, stockings that she filled with treasures—something she did until we were well into early adulthood. She made the little things (and the people in her life) feel special every day. This is something I try to do as well. She was the original romanticizer of life, before that was trending on TikTok.
Find beauty in the everyday.
I don’t have many memories of her house before she moved in with my aunt and uncle. But even after she moved into the apartment, every detail was perfect. I remember loving her bathroom. She poured all of her products into elegant glass bottles. Her shampoo could have been Pert Plus for all I know, but it was displayed in a hand-blown bottle. Mysterious oils and potions, all beautifully decanted and clustered together around her bathtub and sink.
The rest of her home was the same. She loved MacKenzie-Childs and collected it. Immaculately styled bookshelves. Dust did not seem to exist. There were pretty little trinkets everywhere, but nothing ever felt cluttered—just collected.
Put yourself together with care.
I may be misremembering this, but in my mind my grandmother always wore the same jewelry: a thick gold collar necklace that looked a bit like a piece of rope, a matching bracelet, weighty gold studs in her ears.
I know she owned other jewelry, but I will always picture her in those pieces. She rotated the same fine pieces in her wardrobe, which was mostly cashmere, silk, or wool—always neutral, always pressed. I don’t remember her ever looking rumpled.
I can’t say our styles are all that similar, but observing her definitely taught me something about personal style: the beauty of having a uniform and putting yourself together with care.
Life can be full without a man.
I think this might spark some debate within my family as I’ve heard some more colorful stories as an adult . . . but the important thing is the message I got as a kid.
My grandfather was around (he passed when I was 13) but they had divorced before I was born. After that, she had a second husband (also before my time). But in the 34 years of knowing my grandmother, I never met a single gentleman caller. I know they were around, I know they existed, I heard about “friends,” . . . they just weren’t really the focus. Her life always seemed very full without a man. I am choosing my words here carefully. I love being partnered, I love romance. But I do think there is something powerful in seeing a woman like my grandmother, completely thriving, vibrant, busy, and seemingly living completely for herself. The message I received from watching her was that her family, herself, and her church were her top priorities. Anything else was just extra.
Time is never guaranteed.
It feels silly to say this, but I always thought we would have her around for longer than we did. Her mother, my Great Grammy, lived until 103, so I just sort of assumed that side of my family had really good genes, that my own grandmother would be here for another 10 or even 15 years. When she got sick, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal. I was worried, but it felt temporary. I’d take the train to New Jersey to visit her in her rehab center. I had just left my full-time job so had more flexibility and could visit her weekly. We’d laugh and goof around. I’d pack a bag of beauty products and I’d give her lipstick, massage her hands and feet. One day I brought sheet masks and she thought they were such a hoot! I remember how tired she looked, but was certain this was just a blip, that she’d be back on her feet in no time.
One day, my dad called to tell me she was going home. I blinked, initially confused. At first, I thought he meant she was better and was getting released. Quite the opposite. He explained that it was something about her sodium levels, nothing could be done. This was it. She would return home; hospice would come. I cried and cried. (I cry a bit writing this.)
I realize that 90 is still old, a good long life. I feel lucky I could visit as much as I did when she was sick. I feel lucky I got to say goodbye. I was able to see her again before she passed, but I still think: I thought there would be more time, I thought we’d have so many more years. How cavalier of me. Still, to this day, I feel guilty. I would have visited more, called more . . . I would have been a better granddaughter. I would have asked more questions and written down all of her stories. My parents tell her stories now, and I gobble them up (and write down what I can remember when I get home). There are so many and I worry I’ll forget them. Especially as I get a little older and don’t always feel as sharp as I used to be.
Maybe I sound morbid, maybe I was just really optimistic when I was younger. The thing is, none of us know how much time we or the people we love have left. Don’t wait. Make them a priority, tell them you love them. Then: Savor the memories, because it’s all we can do.
Ten years after her passing, I’ll imagine we got to have those extra years. Would she have come to Charleston? I think so: I could see my aunt bringing her. She’d love my house. She’d get a kick out of my niece, and we’d all do crafts. She’d raid my beauty closet and go home with five new lipsticks. She’d adore (and probably flirt with) Geoff. I’d take out my best china and prettiest glassware and make her chicken salad with cute little finger sandwiches. I’d have a pitcher of fresh orange juice, sparkling water, and fruit cut up in a Mackenzie-Childs bowl. I’d make her a (watered-down) martini (and only let her have one). I’d beg for more stories.
The very best statement coats (my favorite thing to wear right now).
An edit of under $200 favorites (so many great pieces in this roundup).
Purple and red, a fab color combination!
Fringed favorites. A super fun round-up, and how I’m styling them.
I gobbled up Back Where We Started (out 10/13) by my close pal Becca Freeman in just a couple of sittings. It was an absolute delight. I always stress a little bit reading friends’ books (it’s awkward, romance is not my typical genre, what happens if I don’t like it!?). Not liking this book would be impossible. First of all, it has my favorite romantic trope ever (famous person, non-famous person), with plenty of insider-feeling Hollywood moments and glamour. It also has another favorite trope: childhood sweethearts finding each other again. The characters are endearing, the banter is (much like Becca) witty and clever, and it’s just a joy to read. A big warm happy hug. I loved it so so much, even more than her first book! Order on Bookshop.org
After all that cozy warmth and goodness, I felt ready to finally tackle Strangers, the Belle Burden book that the whole world seems to be reading right now. I had been putting it off because it felt too sad to read, but it was totally manageable. A wild ride that opens with a woman being left by her husband. The book goes back and forth between past and present to examine what happened. I found it unputdownable. It took me two days to read it, and both nights I found myself staying up an hour or two past bedtime to read more. I loved it. The writing (and storytelling) is incredible. Order on Bookshop.org
I'm 68. My husband died six months ago. Reading this piece inspired me to see life differently now. I've been busy mourning and figuring out what to do next. I'm reading this article several more times and using it as a blueprint to form a new life moving forward. We weren't married long, (less than five years, my first) and I gave it my all, losing self in the process. You wrote hope for me. Love this read, thank you.
Thank you for sharing, this brought back memories of my own grandmother who I think of so often when I go to the trouble to set a table just right, iron my napkins, write a note to a friend. You have written a sweet touching tribute to a woman who cared and loved you and made such a lasting impression in your life. We needed this, thank you.