My grandmother has been walking this earth for ninety years. Ninety sounds so much older than eighty, doesn’t it? But it’s a good kind of old. It’s a wise kind of old. People who are ninety years old know so much more than me, it’s almost embarrassing.


My grandma has lived through so much. She lent me a book when I was a teenager, set during World War II. It was a little sentimental for my taste (especially at the time), but I told her I liked it okay.

She sighed and said, “I guess it’s hard for you to understand.” She didn’t say it to be condescending; she said it because it was true.

Grandma has lived through things that I haven’t and, hopefully, will never have to. She’s lived through a terrible war that kept her heart in her throat with close family members fighting. She’s dealt with the death of her husband and two of her children. She’s dealt with the loss of her memory that has been fading quietly away for the last few years.

But you know what? She’s ninety. She’s not bed-ridden, wheelchair-bound, or living in a nursing home. And she still smiles.

And for ninety, that’s pretty damn good.

Happy Birthday, Graham Cracker! I love you.


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