Extra in Every Way: Grandma’s Love

Grandma Barb was “Extra,” as today’s generation calls it. But in all the best, most magical ways.

A sleepover with her wasn’t just a sleepover; it was an event. The BEST sleepover ever.

A whole gallon of chocolate milk. Just. For. Me. “Pick out whatever you want for breakfast,” Grandma would say as she grabbed a cart and a few cans of cat food for her two beloved cats—Mercy and Prince.

Mercy was a bit of a terror. She growled, hissed, and occasionally went on the attack, so I avoided her at all costs. But Prince? Prince was the polar opposite—shy, quiet, and always hiding. Coaxing him out of his hiding spot under Grandma’s bed became my personal mission during each visit. I’d sit for hours, patient and determined, until he’d emerge, his silky black coat softer than anything I’d ever touched. Grandma loved her animals at times maybe more than her humans (just kidding), a mutual character flaw that we shared.

At Grandma’s, no detail of a sleepover was overlooked. I added to the cart. Frosted Flakes. A Carmello candy bar. Chips and cheese dip. Skittles. Cinnamon rolls. Chocolate chocolate chip muffins. Those impossible-to-open little plastic fruit juices, and, of course, a six-pack of glass-bottled Pepsi. “Is that all?” she’d ask with a grin. And then, off to the movie store to pick out not one, not two, but THREE movies to rent. “Do you want four?” she’d add.

When it came to bedtime, I could sleep wherever I pleased. The canopy bed upstairs? Sure. The living room floor? Absolutely. Grandma would create the coziest nest of comforters and blankets, stacked high and layered with pillows—one, two, three, four, five—all for me. “Is that enough? Or should I grab another?” she’d ask, giggling as she tossed over yet another pillow.

Grandma herself always chose the couch, even though her house had three or four beautifully decorated beds with all the frills. She stayed nearby, ready to refill my chocolate milk or sneak me another snack. Bedtime rules didn’t apply at her house—I stayed up late, slept in even later, and never once felt like a bother.

Her home was a treasure chest of wonder. A spare bedroom held hundreds (not figuratively- I mean literally hundreds) of teddy bears, each with its own story of where it came from or who gifted it to her. Another was devoted to Mickey and Minnie Mouse, from floor to ceiling. She dreamed of visiting Disney, her wish granted just this past year with Aunt Angie and my cousins, Chelsea & Derek. Her living room sparkled with carousel horses encased in a glowing hutch, their reflections dancing on the walls at night. And let’s not forget the attic, where she kept vintage toys—Ring-a-ma-jigs, Lincoln Logs, Barbies, electronic Simon. She made sure they were always ready for us, tucked neatly away until our next visit.

But the crown jewel of Grandma’s personality shone brightest during Christmas.

Christmas at Grandma’s was pure magic—no, more than magic. It was EXTRA. The stockings. The gifts. The food. The sheer joy.

Her Christmas tree was a masterpiece every year, each season bringing a new theme—silver, gold, red and green, blue and silver, or neon pink. Every ornament and strand of tinsel had its place, and she’d notice if a single piece was moved. You didn’t mess with Grandma’s Christmas tree. Nor would you want to. It was perfect—just like her wrapping. Her gifts weren’t just wrapped; they were art. Intricate bows, scissor-curled ribbons, and expertly folded paper, as if every gift was destined for royalty. Santa’s elves themselves couldn’t hold a candle to her wrapping skills. (Not to mention they were impossible to sneak a peek into- thank goodness for Uncle Chad’s pocket knife and kitchen scissors- her taping skills were unbreachable.)

And oh, the gifts. Piled higher than the tree and spilling across the living room floor, they seemed to multiply exponentially every year as the family grew. Stockings were hung on the staircase, crammed and overflowing with treasures for everyone, from kids to grandkids to great-grandkids to significant others. Not a spindle remained when she was finished. Opening presents at Grandma’s wasn’t just unwrapping—it was an event, complete with wrapping paper “snowball” fights and shouts of delight as each gift turned out to be exactly what we’d dreamed of. Always the right size, right color.

Christmas wasn’t just a holiday at Grandma’s house; it was an experience.

And that’s who she was—EXTRA in the best ways. Her laugh was extra contagious. Her heart was extra generous. She was extra stubborn. She worked extra hard. And her spirit was extra radiant.

Grandma didn’t just love us; she spoiled us with her time, her thoughtfulness, and her over-the-top, beautiful way of making every moment together unforgettable.

This Christmas, and every day after, she will be so, so, so, so EXTRA missed.