Grammy Porter

It was not just camera shyness, my grandmother always held her hands together against her body. I, too, walk that way. It was second nature. I think she needed to hold herself back. Otherwise, like I do, she would erupt in smiles and mouth covering giggles again and again and again. It's embedded in me.
I think she stitched something different into each of her 14 children and grandchildren that many times doubled. I, the sixth to last grandchild and fifth to last girl, got her hair, her dance, and her love of Scrabble.
Even at 80, her hair was never gray. It was brown and soft; it permed loosely at an iron's touch. I loved my grandmother's hair. She once held my own back as I spewed hot dog guts into her kitchen sink. I might have been four when I first fell for love.
My grandmother was endless Scrabble games with butter cookies. They were always homemade. Wobbly arms, once young and muscled now aged with the love of so many children, would press fork prongs and sprinkle colored sugar into the dough. Nobody has since done the same. She always as the best.
Not even my parents could beat Grammy in scrabble. Was I too young to challenge her words? Perhaps, I was not old enough to know the right words. No, I think she was just that wordy.
I have inherited my hair and impromptu dance skills from my grandmother. I have seen them age over twenty years of eight millimeter film and the fourteen years I knew her. Maybe I'll learn to play scrabble like her, someday.