Anita Mishel

When I was first born, I met Grandma, and I've lived my life with her ever since.

When I was 7 years old, I learned that Grandma was short, because I was quickly reaching her height.

When I was 12 years old, I realized that she was a foreigner -- before that, I just thought that all grandmothers talked that way.

When I was 18, I discovered that she was beautiful -- I saw a picture of a girl in Grandma's album and said, "Wow, who's that?" "That's me when I was your age," she answered, and I looked at her and saw that the same beauty was still in her.

When I was 21, I learned that she was neat, because the standard for tolerable cleanliness of my student household was whether Grandma would say, "Oy, how could you live like this?"

When I was 24, I saw how her home in "the country" had defined my childhood, as I spent the summer building my parents' new house amidst Grandma's rhubarb patch, and her bubbling fountain, and her hammock, and all of her friends at the lake who referred to me as "Anita's grandson."

When I was 30, I realized that she was old, when I learned her story of how she got to America, and I saw that the World Wars and the Depression weren't just history to her, but part of her life.

When I was 34, I learned how smart she was -- when I told her I might marry Eljay, Grandma said, "Of course, I could see it in both of you the first time I saw you together." And when I was 35, and we hinted that we were trying to get pregnant, Grandma said, "What took you so long?", seeing somehow that Eljay already was.

And this year I learned that Grandma was mortal. She was part of my life for 36 years. Now she'll be part of my memory for the rest of my life. And she'll be part of my son's life too, who'll hear her story whenever he asks, "Where did my name André come from?"