So many afternoons I sat at Grandma's feet, looking up into her eyes as they peered through steel-rimmed spectacles at the sewing she held in her hands! Sometimes, too, she would knit, the thin steel knitting needles flashing as she worked on a sock or a mitten she'd be making for birthday or Christmas gifts.

At the time, I did not think it at all odd that she should have so much sewing and mending to do. Now, looking back, I know that she must have saved it all back so that she could be seated in her rocker, sewing in her lap, waiting each day for me to come from school, so the story hour could begin.

She must have know how much I loved to hear her tales of days gone by. Time sped by and I'd find myself getting home so late I'd have to hurry to get my chores done before dark.

Too late, I wished that I had written down the stories Grandma told me. The passing of time has dimmed some things and blocked out others so that all her tales have gaps and holes in them.

I wish with all my heart I'd had the foresight to record them. How precious -- and valuable -- they would be now!

As I try to piece them together, remembering her and the way she looked -- flashing back through so many years -- it seems almost to have been a beautiful elusive dream . . . .