Last night, my Grandma fell and broke her ribs. Well, only two of them, but that’s enough when you’re 89. This is the Grandma I keep writing picture books and essays about (that’s her with her stapler in this month’s Skirt! essay). We’re beyond close. She taught me to bake cookies, to hang laundry, to cuss for the pure joy of it.  So of course I spent most of the day with her (she’s with Mom in Austin right now, but she had an appointment that couldn’t be shifted).

On top of the painkillers, Grandma has senile dementia/Alzheimer’s, so most of the day was spent in a very short conversational loop. But I had the chance to read my October essays to her — making your Grandma giggle is like making a baby laugh, pure joy — and watch TV with her between catnaps. You’ve never watched the cooking channel until you’ve watched it with Grandma; she kept muttering “I wish she would wash those vegetables she’s using,” and “She’s not going to rinse that fish?”  and “You’d think a professional would know to tie that long hair back.” (You might want to think about that, Sandra Dee. The health department will ding you for the hair.) Lunch was my homemade cajun ham and bean soup, fresh cornbread, and my dark chocolate walnut cookies. I’m pretty sure it tasted better than whatever that Barefoot Contessa was making. At least Grandma said so.

When she napped, I read the perfect book for a day with Grandma — A Year Down Yonder, by Richard Peck. I laughed, I cried. His Grandma was wonderful and terrible, mischievous, loyal, cussedly mean, and determined to make things right.  It made me wonder how many authors out there are writing picture books and novels about their dear, obstinate, peculiar Grandmas. I know I can’t seem to stop writing about mine.