This weekend marks the sixth anniversary of my paternal grandmother's death.
I'm one of the lucky ones -- I made it to 25 with all four of my grandparents still alive. And to 31 with three, before my Pop passed away in November.
As a child, Nana Gwen was one of my favourites. I'd spend most summer holidays with her and Pop in Nelson -- she'd take me raspberry picking, we'd spend hours at the swimming pool and the library, we'd play endless games of Snakes and Ladders, and she'd patiently accompany me every time I insisted on a walk through the cemetery, one of my favourite things to do.
She'd fill the cupboards with all my favourite things: cheesebread, ingredients for baking afghans and raisin cakes, jelly and ice cream. We'd talk for hours, we'd laugh a lot, she'd pray for me every night before bed.
As a person, Gwen's frugality was the stuff of legends -- nothing was too old, or too worn. She would wash plastic supermarket bags so they could be re-used, telling my mother, "you keep house in a way that saves time, I keep house in a way that saves money".