My dad's mom drove to her work in a store on a bicycle. She raised three kids. She was rather petite, wore simple but colorful, tight knee-long dresses, and had a wavy brown hair.

She had a great smile, but was not a very warm type. With me, she barely communicated. She talked with entitled calm and was usually unhappy with things when she visited my parents in her later years. She was close with her daughter.

My memories of her, unfortunately, are sort of chilling. For a long period, when I was 3-4 years old, I had to sleep between her and a cold wall, and each time I moved she scared me with additional details of horrors that would happen to me if I do it again, including monsters under the bed. I slept little, was happy to see the morning light, and it was exhausting.

I am ashamed of one thing I told about her. My parents were visiting me rarely between age 1 to 5, and once they did  - I must have been about 3 - I told my mother privately that my grandmother beat me with a chair. My mother laughed and told everyone. That never happened, as far as I know, I lied.

My grandmother gave me her ring shortly before she died, and told me something honest about my father, which he will never know.