Of all the ěmamasî who helped shape me ó a tag-team effort that included my mother, her eight sisters, several teachers and the mothers of a few of my friends ó no one meant more to me than my grandmothers.
My motherís mother was a preacherís wife who lived in town, rarely went to church and never missed a chance to speak her mind. A mischievous woman with a dark sense of humor, she wore white gloves to go shopping, cheated openly at cards and swore under her breath like a sailor.
My fatherís mother was a farmerís wife who lived on a mountain that she seldom left, except to go to church every Sunday. She grew dahlias and tomatoes, hiked for miles to pick wildflowers, read novels, wrote poetry, painted sunsets on stones and traveled through the pages of National Geographic and her own imagination.
They were as different from each other as two women could be. The one thing they shared in common was a boundless and abiding love for me. I was each womanís favorite grandchild, a fact that will be disputed by my siblings and cousins, but I had no doubt: They loved me best.
The strange thing is, somehow they managed to give me both their natures. Never mind which parts. Itís an odd combination that allows me to feel equally at home in town or on a mountain, and equally drawn to both. But like flip sides of the same coin, I never know which side ó city or country ó will turn up.
I always thought I knew my grandmothers pretty well. But lately Iíve been seeing them ó or, rather, my memories of them ó in a new and different light.
Apparently, with grandmas, it takes one to know one.
That is what I am now, a grandmother. Yes, you are right. I am not too proud to brag.
I joined the club five months ago when my youngest and his wife gave birth to a strong boy with red hair and blue eyes and a steel-trap grip on my heart.
His name is Randy. He lives in California with his parents. I live 500 miles away in Las Vegas, with my husband, who calls from work several times a day to see if Iím still home.
I spent three weeks with Randy after he was born, plus a few days at Thanksgiving. And he and his parents came to visit after Christmas. Thatís not much time to get know each other, but weíre working on it.
Today, while his mom was shopping, I pushed his stroller about the store and entertained him by making faces that kept him in stitches. I hate shopping, but Iím good at making faces. He thought I was hilarious.
Later, his mom let me feed him bananas. He didnít find that nearly as funny. Most of the bananas ended up in my hair.
After his mom cleaned him up, we played, he and I, on the rug in his room and I told him about his great-great grandmothers.
ěThey had big bellies,î I said. ěAnd bosoms the size of turkeys.î
He grabbed his toes and tried to put them in his mouth.
ěAnd when they hugged you, you knew youíd been hugged.î
He grabbed my hair and tried to put it in his mouth.
ěThey were different,î I said, ěand I am different, too. But the best thing about them was they loved me best. And that is how I will love you.î
He grabbed my nose and tried to put it in his mouth.
ěSomeday,î I continued, in a twangy, pinched-nose, painful voice, ěyou might have a baby sister or a bunch of squirrelly cousins whoíll say I love them best. And theyíll be right.î
He let go of my nose and looked into my eyes.
ěBut just remember,î I said, resting my face on his belly. ěI loved you best first.î

Contact Sharon Randall at www.sharonrandall.com.