There was a little granny on our street named Clara Wilson. A storybook grandma with a bun and a housedress. Petite and somewhat frail looking, but quite the opposite in reality. She was strong. She must have been in her late eighties but was light on her feet and full of energy. Her yard and house were beyond neat and tidy at all times. At the crack of dawn you would find her outside on the sidewalk sweeping up twigs and the tiniest bits of grass. Those dang oak trees with their acorns dropping everywhere and the stupid squirrels making a mess of things. God forbid she find a piece of trash left by some inconsiderate passerby.
Lilacs grew in the alley behind her house. Mountains of lilacs, ridiculously beautiful and fragrant for their short season every spring. My mom and I were welcome to pick as many as we could carry, and we always did. Then she'd invite us in for coffee and juice in her delicate tea cups. It couldn't have been cozier.
My mom idolized Clara and loved her independent spirit. Of course, they were practically one and the same...my mom had all the same qualities and I'm pretty sure some of them rubbed off on me too. Although I often wish I'd had the chance to know my mom as an old woman, I feel I got a glimpse of her in Clara.
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