(no subject)
My grandmother, Todora hovering aroung 70, has gray hair, which she
occasionally dyes auburn, and wears long rough village dresses. She has
bad teeth because she is afraid of the dentist, a face swollen and
coppered by alcohol. She is short and stout with surprising speed and
alacrity. Undeniably, she is an amazing cook with the instinctive magic
that comes with years of experimentation and experience, obviating the
need for recipes and measuring cups. Naturally, she is not a sweet,
quiet old lady with a soft passive smile and the modesty of her time.
Her voice is sharp and high with melodic undertones which render it
playful rather than irritating. She is quick to respond to anything and
everything, with either great, grave, sometimes offended sincerity or
biting, well-meaning sarcasm. Her diction is simple, delightfully
amusing and pleasantly poetic. At times she is even philosophical, when
it’s wonderful to see her catch herself musing, openly proud and
satisfied to have reached and be sharing the life lessons learned. And
it is a treat of a surprise to realize how easy and refreshing it is to
talk to this strange but sharp older woman, unabashed and willing to
share so much. She does not seem to regret much from her past, sure of
herself, she sometimes dramatizes, exaggerating feelings or situations,
yet does so in a captivatingly convincing way. Since she enjoys
inflicting the dramatical she also demonizes or glorifies individuals,
emotion easily overwhelming rationality. She does not disprove of
judging, does so justifiably, and gossips as much as any other village
woman. Towards her dearest, she is generous, open and kind-hearted. Her
love is strong and unreserved but quick to criticize and condemn those
loved. To amuse, she is willing to play an endearing fool when
encountering things she does not understand or like. She is also a
notorious hoarder, indignantly shocked by one’s ease in throwing away
things ‘we may always need some time or other.’ For this reason, she has
kept my baby clothes along with broken plastic toys and straggly,
balding dolls in bags, piles and drawers all over her house.
My
grandmother is a person I could write a Balzacian novel about, an
interesting individual I love dearly and am often intrigued by.
occasionally dyes auburn, and wears long rough village dresses. She has
bad teeth because she is afraid of the dentist, a face swollen and
coppered by alcohol. She is short and stout with surprising speed and
alacrity. Undeniably, she is an amazing cook with the instinctive magic
that comes with years of experimentation and experience, obviating the
need for recipes and measuring cups. Naturally, she is not a sweet,
quiet old lady with a soft passive smile and the modesty of her time.
Her voice is sharp and high with melodic undertones which render it
playful rather than irritating. She is quick to respond to anything and
everything, with either great, grave, sometimes offended sincerity or
biting, well-meaning sarcasm. Her diction is simple, delightfully
amusing and pleasantly poetic. At times she is even philosophical, when
it’s wonderful to see her catch herself musing, openly proud and
satisfied to have reached and be sharing the life lessons learned. And
it is a treat of a surprise to realize how easy and refreshing it is to
talk to this strange but sharp older woman, unabashed and willing to
share so much. She does not seem to regret much from her past, sure of
herself, she sometimes dramatizes, exaggerating feelings or situations,
yet does so in a captivatingly convincing way. Since she enjoys
inflicting the dramatical she also demonizes or glorifies individuals,
emotion easily overwhelming rationality. She does not disprove of
judging, does so justifiably, and gossips as much as any other village
woman. Towards her dearest, she is generous, open and kind-hearted. Her
love is strong and unreserved but quick to criticize and condemn those
loved. To amuse, she is willing to play an endearing fool when
encountering things she does not understand or like. She is also a
notorious hoarder, indignantly shocked by one’s ease in throwing away
things ‘we may always need some time or other.’ For this reason, she has
kept my baby clothes along with broken plastic toys and straggly,
balding dolls in bags, piles and drawers all over her house.
My
grandmother is a person I could write a Balzacian novel about, an
interesting individual I love dearly and am often intrigued by.