A topic on my mind lately is one that I call “titles”. It is a topic I have explored a lot with my husband and one that has dictated a number of important decisions in our life.  We have commented more than once that it seems to us that folks often look at the “title” of the person, typically based on their lineage or “status” in the family, without giving equal look to the actions of the person.

It is always surprising to me what people get away with simply due to their title in the family. But if said person behaved in such a way with simply the title of “friend” or “acquaintance,” then suddenly the behavior would no longer be acceptable.

Why is that?

As I was getting ready for work this morning and I went to check my hair one last time, I smiled as I saw this on my bathroom counter:

This, my friends, is one of the most precious gifts I ever received. You see, this is a handkerchief, a very old handkerchief, embroidered with two simple wedding bands. It was given to me on my wedding day by grandmother.

Only, she wasn’t.

Zelma Penn married my grandfather when I was 7 or 8 years old.  Before then, we didn’t see much of my grandfather. He was a raging alcoholic, spent most of his time at work or in a bar, and didn’t come around much., except to introduce us to his latest girlfriend.

Zelma, or “Jerri” as she was introduced to us, changed all that. She was a woman from the deep south. She had a real southern drawl, a true gift for cooking, and always had an eye on beauty and personal upkeep.

Most importantly, she turned out not to be just one of another of my Papa’s girlfriends. She ended up being a keeper.

Now, given his background and the fact that the two of them probably met at a bar, it is likely that few in the family saw this woman as someone who was “worthy” of joining the family or the union as one that would last.

Lasted, it did. Until 2001 when my Papa died.

But, back to the story.

Jerri liked to tell me about the first time she met me. As my Papa drove her to our place, he of course “bragged” about his only two grand kids, my brother and me. Regaling her about how “smart” I was and how “athletically” talented my brother was. And then he told her:

“Tiff isn’t the prettiest little thing. But, honey, I sure do love her.” [she ALWAYS said this part with great emphasis!]

Both of those things were the truth. I wasn’t the cutest girl on the block. AND my Papa loved me something fierce.

And so did Jerri.

From the point that my Papa married Jerri, there was hardly a weekend that we didn’t see them. The door to their home was literally always open, I don’t believe we ever knocked. She cooked, she sewed, she gardened, and she cooked some more. She couldn’t cure his alcoholism, but at least her efforts meant he spent more time at home and less time at the bar.

They showed up at every family holiday event.

But to me, it was so much more than that.

You see, Jerri had grandchildren of her own. Two boys and a girl in Alabama. She’d talk and she’d brag on them, sure.

But she told me that I  was her Strawberry Granddaughter.

She called me this because I loved strawberries. From my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box to my favorite strawberry ice cream. She even had a special strawberry cake recipe that she made for me each year, even into adulthood.

This woman encouraged my Papa to build us a tree house (which turned out to be one slab of wood in the big tree out back). She put a huge pillow up there and let me spend hours reading my books. Bringing me cantaloupe for breakfast (salted just right) and peanut butter and (strawberry) jelly sandwiches for lunch. In the afternoons there would always be fresh strawberries, or even better, strawberry ice cream for dessert.

I thought she did so many things “backwards”.  She hung the clothes on the line to dry even though she had a clothes dryer in the house (why would I waste all that electricity?). She would buy hamburgers from Burger King plain and bring them home and put all the veggies and condiments on the burgers herself (they just taste better with garden fresh vegetables!). She shopped at the goodwill at least every week (why waste your money on something new?). And, she composted, whistled, and walked several miles each day to keep “trim and fit.”

She taught me to sew and one summer she and I made several cute outfits that I felt so pretty in. She could hem, alter, or make anything!

And she sunbathed.

In her bikini.

I wish I had a picture of her in her bikini, with her tan and wrinkled skin laying out in the backyard on one of the old plastic lounge chairs while my Papa tended his magnificent garden with the Dodger game on the radio and I read another Trixie Belden mystery up in the tree.

She had absolutely no qualms about laying out in her bikini. It is one of my earliest memories of someone being sure of themselves without worrying about what “others” thought. In fact, I just found this picture of her in a halter top (age 65 to 70?), looking radiant and happy.

In this picture, I see the picture of love. The kind of love I had not ever experienced before. The kind of love that loves you, even when they have no obligation to you whatsoever.

At night, she’d put bubbles in a bath and let me soak for as long as I wanted and then we’d snuggle into her bed (after she verified my feet were clean) and watch “Matlock”, “The Golden Girls” and our favorite, “Murder, She Wrote.” We would laugh or try and figure out “whodunit” and then off I’d go to “my” purple bedroom where I could stay up as late as I wanted and sleep in until I woke up.

As I got older, she took care of my two young cousins who came after me. She took on so much for those kids, becoming their primary caregiver for much of their pre-school lives.

But still, she always had time for her “strawberry granddaughter.”

And later, she loved up my husband and insisted on taking care of our little Jake one day a week just to have more time with him. I love this picture mostly because I can’t help but notice her perfect nails and toes:

On our wedding day, she gave me her handkerchief to wear as my “something old”. You see, this wasn’t just any handkerchief. This one was over 50 years old and had been given to her on her first wedding day.

And after all this time, without any blood between us, she didn’t give that handkerchief to her only  “real” granddaughter.

She gave it to me.

If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.

From that first day and that no-so-pretty little girl, to the gangly awkward teenager, to the young woman who moved away from everybody she knew – she loved me when she didn’t have to.

After all, she didn’t have the official title.

And I regret that. I regret that I never gave her the title of “Granny”, as she liked to be called. She was Jerri until the last day I saw her.

Only, I didn’t know it would be the last day I saw her.

You see, at the end of her life, I had to choose. Scratch that, I made a choice. A choice between someone with a familial “title” and Jerri. My beloved grandmother. I chose the title, hoping love and acceptance and a sense of family would be there. Thinking it was the “right” thing to do.

And I forgot about someone who had done the job, who had been there, and who had loved me, my husband, our son… all of us, even though she didn’t have to.

The choice I made was the wrong one. And before I could ask for forgiveness, find the courage to look up her phone number, to better articulate why I felt I had no other choice, she quietly moved back to Alabama and died not too long after in her sleep.

It took me a few more years to understand titles and how unimportant they really are.

Who in your life is loving you when they don’t have to? Who is doing the work even without the title?

Call them and tell them you notice. That you appreciate them. And that their love has made a difference in your life.