My Adopted Grandma

I first met Mildred Thomann at a Girl Scout program called Adopt-a-grandparent held at the Community Center in Riverside. The Community Center is a small building stuck between the Riverside flower shop and Murphy’s Bar and Grill and is open the public’s use, though it’s mostly used for the elderly to have get togethers. The building is crammed full of tables on one side and a circle of chairs on the other. Everyone stood in the middle of the circle of chairs and waited to be assigned a grandchild or grandparent. This was my second year in the program, and I couldn’t help but notice that my adopted grandma from last year didn’t come. It made me feel out of place as I watched the other girls join up with their grandparents from the year before. When our leader got to my name there were only six people left in the circle. Quickly she called out Mildred and my name and pointed to where we where supposed to sit. As I walked over to one of the chairs I stole a glance at my new adopted grandma.

Mildred was a short, white hair lady as thin as a stick. She looked her age, which was 86 at the time, with snow white hair and a face and hands that bared the wrinkles of time gone. As soon as she crossed the room we exchanged hellos, and I noticed that she had a warm, natural smile that made me feel like I already was her granddaughter. The years were gaining on her hearing, making me have the repeat everything I say at least twice. She also talked with a slight mumble. Having a sister that talks fast and a brother who used to always mumble, I easily got use to the way she talked, and after three visits I could understand her perfectly.

By following weekly sessions I soon learned that Mildred had three children, six grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Half of her family lives in Iowa while the other half is out of state. The close family members are deeply involved in the community and their kids rarely visited, except on holidays and every other week during the summer to mow her lawn. Most of her time is spent either outside working with her flowers or inside quilting. Mildred could always be found at home crocheting a blanket, knitting dollies, or stitching together different squares of a quilt. When I once asked her what she did with all of her works she just smiled and stated proudly “I donate them to fund raisers. They are always be the first to go.”

I soon learned about Mildred was that we both attend Riverside’s St. Mary’s Church. She sits on the left side, three rows up from the middle of the church and leads the rosary before every mass. Not long after my discovery I started to talk to Mildred after the mass, when everyone started to leave.

Mildred stayed my adopted grandma up until the program ended in three years later do to lack of interest. After that, we didn’t talk to each other anymore, even though we saw each other every Sunday at church. I thought about talking to her a couple times but never did because I figured that since the program was over, she didn’t want or need a adopted-granddaughter anymore. It wasn’t until the second Sunday in April, a week after my birthday, that I began to talk to Mildred again. As I was leaving church she stopped me and gave me a belated birthday card signed your adopted grandma. I was shocked because I figured that the program was over, so was the whole granddaughter and grandmother get-up. Giving her a warm smile I offered to help her down the five steps that lead out of the church; she always had to use the railing. Then on the following Sunday we walked out of the church together asking each other how the weekend went.

Before we knew it a new tradition had started. Each Sunday after church we would talk together for five to ten minutes as I helped her out to her car. This tradition lasted for a year then I entered into the ninth grade and hanging out with old people was not exactly considered cool. So I started spreading out the weeks that I talked to Mildred. It would be the first Sunday of the month and then the second to last Sunday, or if I had friends around me, I wouldn’t talk to her for over a month. I felt bad about blowing off Mildred, just to talk to someone else my own age, but none of this seemed to irritated Mildred. She was still as happy as ever to get a smile and a hi from me every now-and-then.

One day while I was at my grandparent’s house, my real grandma told me how delighted Mildred was about my talking to her after church and that Mildred told her that she was real lucky to have me for a granddaughter. My grandma also told me that Sunday was the only day of the week that Mildred looked forward to now because she knew that there was a chance that I would be there to talk to her. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty then, for all the times I avoided saying hi to her because I was worried about what others would think. After that I started to talk to Mildred every Sunday again. She wasn’t just my adopted grandma anymore but my friend.

Mildred is ninety-six years old now, with the years haunting her like a dark shadow. She spends a lot of time at home lying in bed sick. Her sewing everyday has been reduced to only crocheting and quilting with bigger stitch work so she can see it, but she still sews for church fund-raisers. The one thing that I think bothers her the most is that her memory is also fading with the years.

Two weeks ago I finally met one of Mildred’s children after church. We were standing at the top of the church steps while Mildred introduced her daughter to me. She was a nice lady in her middle ages and as I said hello I could tell that she inherited the natural smile from her mom. Then Mildred tried to introduce me, “This is… is..” She had forgotten my name, after knowing each other for ten years she didn’t remember who I was. At first I was hurt but then her daughter butted in and asked if I am the girl that her mother always said talked to her every Sunday. Mildred automatically replied yes. I was confused at first but then I realized that she may not of remember my name but she does remember who I am. That really made me think about what is really important. Thousands of people dream of being actors, singers, or superstars, so they can see there name up in spot lights and feel important, like they are making a difference. But Mildred has taught me that a name can be easily forgotten, it’s who a person is and what he/she has done with his/her life that stays with others for always.