the spirit of mildred

My dad's mom... her name was Mildred.
In her later years, she measured in at a few inches under 5' (and her posture was not bad).
She weighed about 95 lbs for as long as I can remember.  I know this because she was willing to share this information with whomever was willing to listen.  And often.
She made a living as a hairdresser, but more so as an entrepreneur.  At the height of her career, she owned 5 salons throughout the Atlanta area.  And what's more, she achieved this at a time when very few women were doing such things.  I credit her with the epic bangs I donned in the mid '80's.
She was a staunch believer in the cotton bra.  Years before I needed one, she would warn me of the dangers of unsheathed bosoms.  "And they oughta breathe!"  (She loved that cotton.)
She was the greatest gardener/landscaper I've ever known.  If I have a green thumb, she had a green hand and arm.  Her yard looked like the Botanical Gardens.  It was not unusual for us to see all 4'10" of her with ax in hand, in the midst of giving some ole pesky ugly tree what it had comin' to him.  She would eventually die in her garden.  And as sad as it sounds, I don't think any other place would have been more fitting.
She had impecable taste.  Every piece of furniture was a mid-century classic, and bought only a few years after they were designed.  She took such pride in her home and her things- truly a woman ahead of her time.  After she passed, I was fortunate enough to inherit most of these pieces.  And now, as I drink coffee at her table or write a letter at her desk or play a record in her media cabinet, I feel a true connection to her.  Sadly, I feel even more connected to her now than I did when she was alive.  If only I could go back and do things over...

Not long ago, I had the opportunity to share some of my memories of her with my kids.

I recall long bored summer days.  Her and my grandpa shared land with our family, her mid-century ranch positioned "up the hill and through the woods" from our (big contrast) log cabin.  On such days, I would wander up to see her, and inevitably wind up playing with the small but oddly marvelous time capsule of toys, hiding in the back of her closet.  As I grew older, and as the toys would hold less intrigue for me, I began to notice the wardrobe I was sitting under more and more.  Mink coats, fox stoles, hand sequined dresses and vintage suits that seemed too spectacular to be sequestered to the back of an otherwise unremarkable closet in rural Georgia.  These were the garments of the kinds of people who lived in cities and did fun things at night.  This was wardrobe of the fancy- not people who talked about cotton bras and chopped down trees.  These were the thoughts of a younger me in those years that I began to suspect my grandmother's past or possible dual life.

The older I get, the more I realize how amazing and special she was.  Seeing my girls play with those same coats and clothes of her wardrobe that I used to play with made me very happy.