We have been traveling around South America and I have fallen behind in most everything, especially my blogging.  We're back, with tales to tell.  But for today, I have something else in mind.



I've been thinking about my grandmother, lately. She passed away just a little over a year ago at the age of 94, and yet  is somehow still with me.  I often picture the two of us doing what we did for years and that was to get in my Tahoe and go.  I'd pick her up at the assisted living facility in Oak Hill and throw her walker into the back of my vehicle.  Each visit she'd wanted to do the same thing—go visit the ranch property in Henly where she'd raised her family and spent most of her life.  She remarked on every house along the Hill Country ranch road where she lived and spoke about her neighbors with deep appreciation for what they'd meant to her.  Then we'd cruise around the newer subdivisions in Henly and say how much things had changed.  Eventually, we'd begin the journey back to the center where she currently lived, but hardly ever without stopping at the Sonic in Dripping Springs first.  We'd drink coconut cream pie shakes and talk about whatever was on her mind—sometimes angels, heaven, or her children.  She'd nearly always comment on how hard it was to give up driving and resulting loss of her independence.

It wasn't until later, when I was writing her eulogy and interviewing her children that I learned just how long she'd been driving.  As a child, she'd lived in Dallas  At the ripe old age of ten, her parents had bought a car.  They didn't, of course, want to drive it themselves.  No, they assigned that task to her.  This was before the time of age restrictions, mind you, so no laws were broken.  I can just picture my ten-year-old grandmother, sitting on a fat Webster's Dictionary with her head barely appearing above the steering wheel.  With blocks tied to her Mary Jane's, she was off like a turtle chauffeuring her parents around Dallas. She quit driving in her late 80's, and by that time had been a driver for nearly 80 years. That's a lot of pavement in the rear view mirror.

Her vantage point turned heavenward.  She commented on billowy cumulus clouds frequently.   It was then that I noticed her deep affection for angels.  Angels, you see, can fly.  They don't have to give up their freedom when they get older.  They travel at the speed of thought, without a walker to steady them, and can visit any old Sonic in the blink of an eye.  When she grew too fragile to ride in my Tahoe, they became the best thing she could think about.  Better even, than two chicks cruising Hwy. 290 and enjoying a coconut cream pie shake.