Growing up I was very close with my paternal grandparents. I’m sure if you’ve read my column the last three and a half years, you probably know that by now. We were so close, in fact, that for a couple of years before they retired from teaching, we lived in the same cul-de-sac. Sometimes it seemed like an episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond,” especially if you were to reminisce with my mother. Even after my grandparents retired and moved to the country, I still managed to spend almost every weekend with them. Not to dismiss my relationship with my maternal grandmother, we were very close as well, but she lived in Virginia and would visit about once a year.
I would have my birthday parties and other celebrations, including high school graduation, at their house. One year my grandmother sewed nightgowns for all of our dolls for a birthday party sleepover with my friends. I genuinely loved and enjoyed being with my grandparents. We shared many similar interests, like watching the sunrise and sunset, baking endless amounts of treats, and our love for musicals. We would go to the theater any chance we could get. One of the earliest memories I have was when I was about 5 years old and we watched “Showboat.” I was hooked.