My grandmother on my mom’s side died a few years ago. For all the things I loved about her, she was very difficult to get along with. Her home was awash with bright colors, pops of purples and pinks everywhere, but that was in sharp contrast to how negative she was. She was never shy in telling people what she thought and her tongue could be quite acerbic.
I’ll never forget the day she came to visit the first home that The Ex and I had bought. I had just finished painting the living room, and she was going to spend the day with me at our new home, helping me decorate and get us settled. She walked right into the living room and said “Why on earth would you paint it this color?”
Completely deflating the sense of pride I had in the first room I had finished in our new home. And so began a very long day. My time with her, both that day and otherwise, was filled with her constant negative comments about everything. My hair. The clothes I wore. Choices I made, decorating, life, and otherwise.
And as much as I hate that my kids will grow up never knowing her (Nick’s last visit with her was when he was 10 months old, so, of course, Madeline and my three nieces never got the chance to meet her), I am glad that what they *do* know of and have learned about her, is happy.
She was a master with the paint brush, and was known for turning out beautiful water color paintings with a quick flick of her wrist. She took art classes every year at her local college, withdrawing right before the end, so she could re-enroll again the next term.
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