I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville wife and mother with a passion for family travel, (mostly) healthy cooking, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries with you, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark.
February 7, 2021
It’s my last visit to my parents’ home before they move and as usual, I’m staying in the rooms my grandmother occupied for a decade before her death in 2015. I was very close with my grandmother growing up and being among her things during our visits has definitely helped me say goodbye to her at my own pace. It has made me feel, in some very small way, like she’s still with us and still taking care of me the way she did throughout my life.
My grandmother possessed the talent of always having whatever I needed, whether it was a safety pin, chapstick, ibuprofen, a snack, a bottle of water, or a handkerchief. The same was true when I visited her each summer — She either had what I needed in one of her drawers or closets or she’d somehow magically whip up her own version from what she had on hand.
That hasn’t changed, even after her death. Grandmother still always has whatever it is that we’ve forgotten to bring, no matter how obscure the item. In fact, it’s a little mental game I play now when we visit – Does Grandmother Have It? The answer, for the last five years, has always been yes. Whether it’s a toothbrush, a baking dish for brownies, playing cards, medicine, a ball to toss around outside, or a dozen other crazy little items one of us just HAS to have, I’ve always been able to find it somewhere in her neatly organized drawers and cabinets.
We’ve depleted her stores over the years and so on this visit, I didn’t have much hope that Grandmother would win the final round of our game. The need was a bit unusual —The first night I arrived, I realized I had forgotten to bring a pair of cotton gloves.
This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but with the combination of constant hand sanitizer and cold weather this season, my hands have been so dry that unless I put on heavy duty hand cream and wear gloves overnight from time to time, the skin sometimes cracks on my fingers. Since I was planning on spending the weekend helping my parents sort through their things, I was pretty unhappy about forgetting the gloves.
I don’t remember my grandmother ever wearing cotton gloves at night. I knew there was almost no chance that she had a pair on hand, and I was tired and not in the mood for searching. But I couldn’t resist playing our game one last time, even halfheartedly, even knowing she would most likely lose this round and I would feel a little sad. Sighing, I opened the top drawer of the chest beside her bed.
There, neatly laid out, front and center, was a pair of white cotton gloves.
I laughed out loud.
It was so… Grandmother.
Leave it to this wonderful woman to make this particular goodbye just a little bit easier.