I went to a book launch a few weeks back. It was part of this ongoing series called “This is not a book reading”. After 30 minutes of Q&A I realized they actually took the name seriously. Kind of a bummer because it felt like I was listening to two people I didn’t know discuss a movie I was probably never going to see. OK I’m making it out to sound worse than it was, but they were discussing a book of poetry and I don’t really read poetry.

Anyway it’s beside the point, so let’s move on.

During the discussion the host began asking the poet about her grandmother since she’s a character that features prominently in all her work. I started to turn green as she described a magical geriatric with a penchant for witchcraft and pianos. This granny was known as the finest storyteller in the land and would regale the neighbourhood children with theatrical rendition of Rudyard Kipling stories. She believed in ghosts and liked to play dress up. In short the woman was a perfect specimen of the Nanna pulchellus family.

Needless to say I was jealous. Jealous because my grandmother was firmly rooted in reality. And I’m not saying I didn’t love my Mamie (that’s what kids call they grandmothers in France) it’s just that she wasn’t of the magical variety. She was more a lived-through-the-war-and-never-really-got-over-it kind of dame. Which is alright because it still makes for funny stories. But I wonder if I would be a different person today if my grandmother was cooking up potions in her kitchen instead potatoes and beets.

Either way, do you think grandmothers reach a point in their grand matriarch careers when they get to decide which path they want to take?